


Prompt Fills - Volume 3

by mangocianamarch



Series: PROMPT FILLS [4]
Category: Being Human, Being Human (UK), Dragon Age (Video Games), The Almighty Johnsons, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit RPF
Genre: AU, F/M, Incest, M/M, Multi, Sibling Incest, Uncle/Nephew Incest, prompt fills, prompts are still open, prompts mighty STAY open tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-15 21:12:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangocianamarch/pseuds/mangocianamarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My new set of prompt fills. Almost anything goes.</p><p>If you've got an idea for a prompt, see <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/774986/chapters/1607143">here</a> for details.</p><p> <b>Please ALWAYS read the notes in the start of each chapter for warnings that may not have been tagged.</b></p><p> </p><p><b>*NEW*</b> Chapter 11 - <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/854102/chapters/8993497">Alistair/Amell, Cullen/Trevelyan - The Chantry Boys sit and talk about their wives.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. BRITCHELL/MITCHERS  - Can Mitchell and the Brohnsons meet?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (I don't remember if I requested this in the first place but worth a shot!) A Mitchers in which Mitchell finally has to meet the Johnsons brothers, because Anders has been kinda keeping Mitchell a secret from his family and now they wanna know who the hell Mitchell is.

“So who is she?”

Anders looks up from his drink, only to find Ty talking into his.

“She?” Anders asks, confused.

“She,” Ty echoes, “The one you’ve been shacking up with over the past few months.”

Anders scoffs. “Nosy,” he snorts, “What’s it to you?”

“Well, you’ve been way too ‘busy’ lately, haven’t you, you wanker?” Ty points out, “You’re either ‘busy’ or ‘lazy,’ either way, it usually means you’re in bed for some reason or another. Or two. Or three. At the same time.”

“Get to your point, bro,” Anders sighs, exasperated, “I didn’t really know I needed my biography read back to me.”

“The point is,” Ty says as Anders finishes the rest of his drink and pours himself another one, “Even Dawn thinks something is up with you, and everybody knows how little Dawn really cares about you or what you do outside of the office as long as it’s not getting in the way of a job she’s not sure she hates or wants in the first place.”

“So you’re on speaking terms then?” Anders replies, “Easy speaking terms? Good on you, mate, I’m proud of you.”

“Don’t change the subject, Anders, you know that doesn’t work with me. Dawn notices things about you, even if she doesn’t want to, and she’s noticed that when you come to work, you’ve been a lot more...cheerful.”

“...Cheerful.”

“You’ve ordered her around a lot less, and one of the things you haven’t asked her to do over the past few months is to send someone flowers. Which means you’ve actually managed to not piss off one of your LBB girls. Which could very possibly mean you haven’t needed one of them in the past few months. Which can mean one of two things.”

“Spill, Sherlock, this is fucking interesting now.”

Ty smirks. “Either you’ve tired of your little black book,” he says, “and are shopping your wares elsewhere on faces that are far more anonymous, or you’ve actually been locked down.”

The two exchange stoic looks, although Ty is admittedly looking far more smug. Not taking his eyes off of his brother, Anders lifts his glass to his lips and downs his drink. Ty’s smirk just widens.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” he asks, “I’m totally right.”

“Say that you are,” Anders replies, his voice even, “The question still remains: What the fuck is it to you?”

“Why’re you so defensive?” Ty asks, and it’s clear he’s quite amused.

“Because I know what you’re gonna ask next,” answers Anders, “You’re going to ask why nobody else has seen him, why you haven’t met him, how could I, you’re my brother and best mate, I should be able to trust you with these things and I don’t, so what the fuck am I hiding? _I’m_ fucking right, aren’t I?”

Ty’s eyebrow has gone so far up, Anders is surprised it hasn’t disappeared into what little hair the fucker’s got on his head. “...It’s a _he_?” Ty asks, near bursting with laughter.

Anders rolls his eyes. “Sod off, you bleeding little shit,” he sighs. He gulps down the rest of his drink, slamming the glass down on the bar and throwing down money undoubtedly not enough to cover everything he’s had in the past 2 hours.

“Aw, come on, Anders!” Ty calls after him.

Anders just flips him off.

\--- + --- + --- + --- + --- + --- + --- + ---

“Hey! Look at what I did!”

Mitchell is far bouncier and a lot more cheery than Anders is usually ready for, especially not when half-inebriated. “What did you do?”

Mitchell appears in the doorway from the kitchen and raises his hands. He’s wearing yellow rubber gloves and an irritating smile.

“The washing,” Mitchell answers, “I did the washing up. I don’t know why this is amusing to me right now, but it is.”

“...There was barely anything to wash, Mitchell,” Anders points out.

But Mitchell just chuckles, still grinning so much his eyes are nearly mere slits on his face. “I know,” he says, his voice slightly high-pitched as he removes the gloves, “I know. That’s the thing. That’s the exact thing. I didn’t have to. I didn’t need to. But I did it. And I liked it.” He clasps Anders’ face in both of his hands and presses his lips to Anders’, the kiss breaking with a rather wet _click_.

“Mitch,” Anders says steadily with a breath, “I’m going to ask you something very important, and I want you to be very honest with me.”

“Of course,” answers Mitchell, that insufferable smile still plastered on his little otter face.

“John Mitchell,” Anders starts, “...Have you been in my stash?”

“...Stash?”

“Stash.”

“Which stash?”

“You know which stash.”

Mitchell actually sputters a little, his face distorting in abject incredulity as he finally lets go of Anders. “Wh-what the --” he stammers, “I...Anders, you know I...of course not, why would I even touch that, you know I hate when you do that!”

“You could have fucking fooled me though,” Anders answers, pushing past Mitchell into the living room, “I’m pretty sure I don’t act like that when I’ve sniffed.” He stops only long enough to check on his fish before he plops himself down across the couch.

“Hey,” Mitchell calls softly, “You okay?”

“M’fine,” Anders replies dismissively, sounding anything but.

“You don’t sound like you’re fine,” Mitchell points out, walking over to the couch, “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Anders lies, sighing, “Look, just do whatever you were doing when I came in, I’m fine.”

Mitchell is frowning, but Anders can’t see. “I’m actually done,” Mitchell tells him, “There wasn’t much to wash. No, come on, tell me what’s going on.”

Anders is well and truly annoyed now. “I don’t _want_ to tell you what the bleeding hell is going on, okay, so just leave me alone, fuck!”

To complete the childishness, he turns on the couch until his back is to Mitchell. “...Okay,” Mitchell says softly, rubbing a hand on Anders’ shoulder, taking it as a good sign that he isn’t batting it away, “Do you want anything? Coffee? A beer?...Me?”

Mitchell hears a muffled snort, so he pushes his luck just a little more. “...This wouldn’t be about your brother, would it?” he asks.

Anders tenses under Mitchell’s hand, and then his head turns just enough so he can look at Mitchell over his shoulder. “How the f--”

“He called,” Mitchell replies before the question is even done escaping Anders’ mouth, “Just a bit before you arrived. He was looking for you, said he wanted to apologize or something, but then he said ‘Oh my God, you’re _him_ ,’ which I thought was a weird thing to say, honestly, and then he hung up. And all I’d said was ‘Hello,’ and ‘he’s not here yet.’”

Anders growls, burying his face in the backrest of the couch. Mitchell backs off, sitting himself in an armchair, half-amused and half-worried as Anders continues to throw a tantrum. Anders howls, swears, punches the sofa, flails and throws his feet and hands around...

“...Finished?” Mitchell asks when Anders flops to a lifeless finish.

“Yeah,” Anders answers.

“Did I do something wrong?” Mitchell prods, still keeping a safe distance. He supposes they make a rather funny sight – he, a 110-year-old certified killing machine, dodging the war path of Bragi, minor god, pick-up line extraordinaire.

“It’s not you,” Anders says into a throw pillow, “It’s my brother. Fucking nosy. Seems to think there’s something off about me, and that you’ve got something to do with it.”

Mitchell wrinkles his nose. “I’m not sure if I should be offended by that or not,” he offers.

“Never mind _you_ ,” Anders scoffs, as if that solves everything, “The trouble is, now he wants to meet you because he wants to understand how you’ve managed to ‘lock me down’ over these past few months. He’s worried because I’ve turned... _nice_.”

“...Nice?”

“Nice.”

“That’s not a bad thing.”

“...Are you implying I’m not nice to begin with?”

“Well, I--”

“Because I am, Mitchell. I _am_ nice.”

“I..I know you are.”

“Mitchell, I’m a nice guy.”

“Of course you are.”

“Is it my fault if I choose who to be nice to?”

“No, of course not.”

“So that settles it. You’re not meeting my family, and they’re not meeting you.” Anders lets out a huge sigh of relief and sits up properly. “Thank goodness, that was easy to fix. Ugh, Mitchell, what would I do without you?”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Mitchell cuts in, “Backtrack just a little for me. Did you say we’re never--”

“Going to meet?” Anders finishes for him, “Yeah, absolutely correct, that’s exactly what I said. I’m thirsty, aren’t you thirsty? I’m thirsty. Do we still have beer? Well, I’ve been drinking since, what, 11 o’clock, but who cares, I really want a beer. D’you want one? I’m getting one.”

“Wait, why am I never meeting them?” Mitchell asks as Anders jumps over the back of the couch and into the kitchen to grab them some booze.

“Because it’d be a horrible idea, that’s why,” Anders replies, rejoining Mitchell in the living room and handing him his bottle before resuming his position on the couch.

“...Why?” Mitchell wonders, and the furrow in his brow is getting worse, “I don’t think it would be such a bad idea, I mean, Ty sounded really nice on the phone.”

“Well, he is, but that’s not the point,” Anders says dismissively, “The point is that it would be a bad idea for my family to meet you, and that’s that.”

“Yeah, but _why_?” Mitchell asks, “Anders, is it...I don’t get it, I don’t understand. _Why_ would it be so bad for me to meet your family? Are you, I don’t know, are you ashamed of them or something?”

“What?” Anders answers, “I probably should be, but I find that I just am not. I mean, yeah I don’t really get along with a couple of them sometimes, but Ty’s like my best mate, he’s the only one who gets it, really.”

Nothing that Anders is saying is doing anything to help. “Okay...” Mitchell trails off, “So if you’re not ashamed of _them_...”

“I’m not.”

“Are you ashamed of _me_?”

He’d said it so quietly he didn’t think Anders would hear. But Anders’ movements slow down as he puts his beer on the table and turns to Mitchell. When he speaks, his tone is soft and easy. “Mitchell,” he starts, “Why would you even think I’d be ashamed of you?”

“Why wouldn’t you be?” Mitchell asks quietly, turning the beer in his hand, “I mean...You know, a few people have been. Including me. So it wouldn’t be a surprise if _you_ were too.”

“Jesus, Mitchell...” Anders trails off, “Geez, that’s what...No, fuck, Mitchell, I’m _not_ ashamed of you. I’m not, I swear I’m not. I couldn’t be if I wanted to be.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Mitchell replies disbelievingly, swigging from his beer.

Anders watches him for a while, before getting up to stand in front of Mitchell. When Mitchell looks up at him inquisitively, Anders urges him up. With a sigh, Mitchell goes, his hands somehow ending up in Anders’.

“Do you remember the day we met?” he asks Mitchell.

“Of course,” Mitchell replies, still despondent.

“When you finally got a good look at me,” Anders says, “what was the first thought that popped into your mind?”

“I don’t see how this is going to explain why you’re so embarrassed to be seen with me,” Mitchell remarks.

“That’s because it’s not supposed to,” Anders sighs, “No come on, just answer the question.”

Mitchell lets out a heavy breath. “I thought...” he starts, “I thought you looked like Christmas morning.”

“Close,” Anders replies, “But I think I’m more like a Christmas morning hangover. Do you know what _I_ thought when I saw you?”

“That I looked like a very young Liam Neeson?” Mitchell offers, receiving a smack on the arm from Anders.

“No, you egg,” Anders laughs, “No, I thought you were one of the most beautiful and unattainable things I’ve ever seen. And you still are. There are days when I wake up and the first thing I see is you, and for some odd reason, I think to myself, ‘how in the world did I get so fucking lucky?’ If I’ve changed, fine, I don’t know if it’s a good or bad thing, but Ty seems to think it’s been for the better, and _you_ did that. So I mean, in a way, you’re probably one of the best things that’s ever happened to me.  I mean, sure, every once in a while, I have to lock myself in my room and make sure the windows are all bolted down so that you can’t get in and suck me dry, but that’s only when I know I’ve pissed you off, and honestly, the last thing I want to do is piss you off. And not just because of the...you know. Fangs. Which I think are very sexy, by the way, just something to keep in mind right now.”

“You were going the right way until you got to the part about me being your worst nightmare,” Mitchell snorts.

“I didn’t say that!” Anders protests.

“You were thinking it,” Mitchell says, “And even if you weren’t, I’m pretty sure you could.”

“Look, the point _is_ ,” Anders continues, “You’re special to me, John Mitchell. You always have been, from the moment we met. You went out with me because you wanted to, not because I used my powers on you, because they wouldn’t have worked anyway. Do you realize that outside of my family, you are the first person in a long time to care about me _for me_? That hasn’t happened in a long time, and it’s...I dunno, it actually means a lot to me. So why in the world would I ever be ashamed of you?”

Mitchell smiles, almost blushing. “Are you drunk?” he asks Anders, who chuckles, “Please tell me you’re not drunk, because you’re not always that nice, even to me, so it’d be nice to know you said all that of your own volition.”

“Of course I’m not drunk,” Anders reassures him, “Well, maybe a little, but I meant every word, okay?”

“That was so obnoxiously sweet,” Mitchell tells him, kissing him briefly, “but that doesn’t answer why you don’t want me to meet your family.”

Anders feels his face fall. “It’s a completely stupid reason, to be perfectly honest,” he says, dropping onto the couch, “And it’s just...Ugh, no, it’s fucked up, I really don’t think I should tell you.”

“I think you should,” Mitchell replies, joining him on the sofa, “Because you’ve told me everything else, and the fact that you’re calling it ‘fucked up’ just has me all the more intrigued. And also because you know I won’t shut up until you _do_ tell me.”

“That’s true,” Anders sighs, “I just...You’re going to think a lot differently of me, and I don’t want that.”

“Do you really think there’s anything that’s going to raise my opinion of you?” Mitchell snorts, but sobers quickly at the look on Anders’ face, “...Kidding.”

“Look, you know I think the world of you,” Anders breathes, “And if I were getting along better with my brothers, I’d have a hundred more things to tell you about them. Like how Mike can be a dick, but he took care of me when our mum did a bunk. Like how Ty can be so fucking broody, but he’s creative and sensitive and he’s always been my best friend. Or how Axl is actually a pretty cool guy, really smart and fun and driven, and all that. And really, if things were a lot better, I’d probably be a lot happier. And if I were anybody else, I’d probably be too eager for you to meet each other. But I’m not. My brothers can be assholes when they want to be, but I feel like I’m just an asshole 24/7, like it’s in my DNA or something. And the only reason Ty thought anything was up was because he thought _someone else_ was making me a better person, which means that he has reason to believe I’m _not_ a better person without you. Does that make sense?”

“...Kind of,” Mitchell says slowly, “Anders, are you telling me you don’t want me to meet your brothers because you think we’re all way better people than you and you think we’re just going to make you look worse?”

Anders shrugs, taking up his abandoned drink. “Something like that,” he mumbles as he tries to down the rest of his beer in one go.

Mitchell just stares at him, eyes squinted as if in confusion, and then without warning he tackles Anders, knocking him across the sofa, tickling him and calling him all sorts of names, cackling as Anders struggles beneath him to get free.

“You beautiful little idiot!” Mitchell laughs, “You tiny ball of dumb, Anders Johnson!”

“No, stop, ACH, geroff!” Anders protests, “Get off, Mitchell, you’re heavy, argh! No, stop that, I’m tickl—ACH, stop!”

Mitchell peppers his face with little kisses, until he’s kissing his way down Anders’ sharp nose and placing little pecks on his lips. He means to say something else, maybe to reassure Anders that he’s wrong, that Anders is a lot more special than he thinks he is, that he knows Anders has a good and caring heart. But he never gets to say any of that, because Anders pulls him close and kisses him properly, and anything Mitchell might have wanted to say gets lost in Anders’ mouth.

“Not fair,” Anders breathes when he breaks the kiss long enough to smile up at Mitchell.

“Love you too, you moron,” Mitchell replies, kissing him again.

And that’s it. That’s all they say. That’s all they need.

 

**_~ END. ~_ **


	2. DURINCEST - Lionborn!Fili

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I just wanted to let you know that you are fantastic for opening prompts. I have a bit of an obsession with anything dealing with lion!fili, if you could maybe write some of that, with some fili/kili on the side. Can be angsty, can be fluffy or whatever. I know this isn't very specific and I hope that's okay.
> 
>  **AUTHOR WARNING** : _MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Battle of the Five Armies; **_SOMEBODY DIES_**
> 
> Sorry, guys, but I REALLY didn't want to tag this with the "major character death" tag D: If this was a separate one-shot, I swear I would have done so.

Thorin squeezes Fili's shoulder gently, effectively stopping him. From his bed, little Kili is watching them curiously, a toy in his hand but otherwise forgotten. Fili turns his own face up to his uncle, quietly asking permission.

"Not yet," is all Thorin says, terse and firm.

"Let him be, brother," Dis argues, "He won't hurt him."

"You said the same about the pet rabbit," Thorin reminds her, but Dis just clicks her tongue at him.

"Go on, Fili," Dis tells her eldest, but adds for good measure, "Go slow."

Thorin finally lets Fili go, and with a deep breath, Fili steps forward. His steps are less than whispers on the floor, his head hung low as he keeps a steady, calm pace towards his brother's bed. Kili's head tilts the other way as he watches Fili approach. Once at the edge of the bed, Fili stops, sits back quietly. Seemingly out of curiousity, Kili crawls to the edge as well, peering down at Fili.

"See?" Dis tells Thorin, who only crosses his arms in front of him in response.

Kili's little face lights up and breaks into a tiny laugh, and he holds a small arm out. At that, Fili rears up, front paws on the cushion. Kili lets out a little squeak, still smiling, still laughing as his fingers find Fili's snout. Fili sneezes, and Kili just laughs even more, almost cackling.

At the door, Dis turns a rather smug smile at her older brother, who just shakes his head, although he too is grinning a little bit now, perhaps not completely immune to Kili's bright happiness.

"Feeeeee," Kili squeals in delight. At least, that's what it sounds like to Dis and Thorin both.

"Don't let him out of your sight, Fili," calls Dis as she leads her brother away by the arm.

 

\--- + --- + --- + --- + --- + --- + --- + ---

 

Cackling, Fili throws the apple even higher, as Kili fruitlessly jumps up, his arm outstretched.

"Fi, please!" he pleads, "I'm hungry! I want that apple, come on, I bought that for me!"

"I'll give it back, little brother," Fili assures him as he catches the apple in one hand and keeps walking at a pace Kili's smaller feet can only barely keep up with, "When I'm done with it." He keeps going, throwing it up and away from Kili, who becomes more and more frustrated with every second. Up, and then down, and then up and down again, and then up...

Fili bumps into a very solid thing indeed, and looks up to search for his apple, only to find it in the hand of a particularly smug looking young boy, of the race of Men.

"Oi!" Fili exclaims, and it is now his turn to jump for the apple as it is kept out of reach, "Give it back, that's my brother's!"

But the boy just laughs as his friends join him. Kili starts jumping up and down in the middle of them, trying to catch the apple as they toss it between themselves.

"Come on, little Dwarfy!" jeers one boy, "Come get your apple!"

"What's wrong, hairy?" teases another as the apple lands in his hands, "Can't jump high?"

"That's mine!" Kili squeals, kicking the next recipient of the apple right in the shin. Suddenly, no one is laughing, and then Kili is being shoved hard by his victim. Kili lands hard on the ground as the boys close around him.

"You need to be taught some matters, ugly," threatens one, grabbing him by the scruff of his collar and lifting him high, "You remember this: I'm bigger than you, and I'll always be bigger than you, and I'll _always_ be better than you! You got that?"

He lets Kili drop, and Kili lands awkwardly on his foot. He yelps in pain as his ankle takes the impact, but the boys just laugh, crowding around him some more as the boy holding the apple crouches down.

"You want your apple, Dwarfling?" he sneers, bouncing it off of Kili's head, "There you go, you want it back, don't you? Take it, there you go!"

Kili is absolutely weeping now, trying to back away from the group of bullies who only follow his slow progress. "Fili!" he manages to cry out through his tears.

It is then that his brother jumps in, placing himself between Kili and his bullies. Digging all 4 paws into the ground, he crouches threateningly, growling. He bares his teeth, sharp canine fangs that he would have no trouble using to punch holes in skin with, should it come to that.

"What---?" starts one boy, but Fili takes that as his cue, and he roars threateningly. It's not a big voice that comes out of him, but it is enough. The group scrambles, throwing the apple to the ground in their haste.

Kili sniffles as Fili's body relaxes. Slowly, Fili approaches, his head hung low as if in apology. Giving a low whimper, he nudges at Kili's injured foot gently.

Kili wipes at his eyes, and gives Fili a tiny, reassuring smile as he reaches out and scratches him lightly on the nose. "M'okay," he says, "Hurts though."

Fili turns his head just enough and noses the apple towards Kili, before settling onto his stomach.

Kili giggles a little, picking up the apple and dusting it off.

 

\--- + --- + --- + --- + --- + --- + --- + ---

 

Kili lets out a gigantic yawn, tossing his bow and quiver to one side without care for where it lands.

"M'knackered," he mutters, "Mister Dwalin is the worst."

Fili only barely looks up from where he's already lounging, opening only one eye to watch Kili's progress across the room.

"Had me running laps around the entire _field_ ," Kili continues, indignant as bugger all, "Did the whole moving-targets thing again, I think he does it just to watch me trip and fall on my face."

Fili, too tired and sleepy himself, only shrugs.

"I also still really don't like swords much," Kili complains, still removing clothes and throwing them around, "I mean, they're handy and all, but you'd have to get in close to your opponent to do any real damage, don't you? Bow and arrows keep you far away from that and still get you a lot of hits, don't they?"

Again, Fili just shrugs.

Kili narrows his eyes at his brother. "No, I'm _not_ still jealous that you're better with the blades than I am," he huffs, but at a look from Fili, he withers, "All right, fine, maybe a little, but that's no excuse to look so smug about it."

Fili just smirks even more at him. Kili chucks his rolled-up shirt at him, making Fili groan in disgust as he struggles to get it off of his face. Kili just laughs at him. Fili grumbles when the shirt is finally off his face and in a crumpled heap on the floor, far away from him. He stretches, letting out a small mewl at the relief it spreads through his muscles.

"S'cold tonight, innit?" Kili remarks as he too raises his arms and arches, stretching out his aching limbs, "Mind if I..."

Fili gives a noncommittal cock of his head, and settles back to try and get back his disturbed nap.

When he feels Kili curl up beside him and into him, he opens one eye again.

"I'm cold," Kili says, pouting just a little.

Fili lets out a sound that could very well be a sigh, and curls in just a little more to give his brother a little bit more warmth, even though they're positioned on the floor in front of the fire.

"Thanks, Fi," Kili smiles, running his hand along the length of Fili's back until it disappears into his mane. He scratches just behind Fili's neck, and lets out a soft laugh when he feels Fili purring. Fili tosses his head a little, grateful for the contact, before laying his head back down.

Kili fits himself into the space created by Fili's body, reveling the warmth of his fur as he drifts off to sleep, another long day finally behind them both.

 

\--- + --- + --- + --- + --- + --- + --- + ---

 

"Fi," Kili chuckles, slurring, "Feeeeeee."

"Steady on, ugly," Fili laughs, himself a little unsure on his feet, "Ugh, you're heavy."

"Can't walk," Kili just says, the most ridiculous grin on his reddened face, "Carry me, Filiiiiiiii."

Kili sways, although he's got one arm slung around his older brother, who he's now inches taller than. Fili has to stretch out an arm and use the wall to balance them out, and Kili ends up with his face in Fili's neck.

"Geroff," Fili whines, laughing, "I'm ticklish, Ki, get off, I mean it!"

Whatever Kili's answer, it's muffled against Fili's skin. Fili curls into himself at the point where Kili lips are making contact his sensitized skin, and he pokes Kili in the ribs to try and get him to move off.

"You smell like apples," Kili says, nosing at Fili's cheek and jaw.

"I should really have watched your alcohol," Fili groans, readjusting Kili's arm around him, tightening his own hold around Kili's waist, "Come on then, you great useless thing."

With some difficulty and even less cooperation from Kili, Fili hauls his younger brother towards their room. As expected, Dis casts a look of impatient resignation at them both. Fili mouths a quick apology, to which their mother just jerks her head towards their bedroom.  
Fili lets out a huge sigh of relief when he's finally able to release Kili and drop him onto his bed, only for the sigh to turn into a grunt as Kili grabs him by the wrist and pulls him down onto the bed with him, the wood frame protesting under their combined force and weight.

"You silly lump of a thing," Fili sighs as Kili all but wraps himself around him, "Did you have a good time then?"

"With you?" Kili asks, "Always."

He mouths at Fili's shoulder, moving slowly towards his neck, but before his lips can find Fili's, Fili moves his head away.

"Don't," he scolds quietly, "We can't."

"Want to though," Kili murmurs, "Fi, please?"

"Why me though?" Fili asks, "You could have literally anyone you want."

"But I _do_ want you," Kili sighs, his chin on Fili's shoulder, "I do."

"You mustn't say such things, Ki," Fili sighs, pushing away from Kili a little.

"But Fi--" Kili starts.

"Don't," Fili interrupts, "Just don't."

When Kili tries to touch him again, Fili jumps off of his bed, landing back on the ground with soft paws, quiet as the grave. He shoots Kili a look, but Kili actually looks rather hurt.

"Don't go, Fili, please," Kili pleads, shuffling to the edge of the bed, but Fili only backs away a little, head hung, eyes low and lidded.

"I'm sorry, Fili, okay?" Kili says, trying to placate his older brother, "I won't say it again, I swear. Please stay, please."

But Fili shakes his great golden head, saddened, and turns away, padding off in the direction of his own room.

 

\--- + --- + --- + --- + --- + --- + --- + ---

 

"It's worse than we thought," Oin mutters as Bilbo lays a wet cloth over Kili's feverish forehead, "It was an orc blade. Of course the wound would get infected."

"Can it be stopped?" Thorin asks, pacing, as if it would hide his worry.

"The cauterization may already have done it," Oin replies, "But there's no telling how long he'll have the fever. All I can do is come up with a tonic to help him fight it, but he'll have to do the fighting himself, and to do that, he needs to rest."

"We don't have time," Dwalin growls low.

"Then we shall _make_ time," Thorin all but roars, and this effectively silences everyone else, "We stay until Kili recovers fully. We head for the mountain _together,_ or none at all."

"Then you best pray he recovers quick, laddie," Balin remarks, "Durin's Day is nearly at our doorstep."

If he thought this would placate Thorin, he was terribly wrong. Thorin orders everyone out of the room, forgetting to keep his voice down. He slams the door behind the last of the Company to leave, and it's this that jolts Kili awake.

Kili lets out a groan as his world comes into sharp and sudden focus. Both Thorin and Fili turn at the sound, and Thorin is at his side quickly.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, low and quiet, as if he's struggling to not show his worry.

"As if I'm on fire," Kili murmurs, "How long have I been out?"

"A whole day," Thorin replies, turning to the basin of water just beside Kili's bed, "almost two."

"I'm sorry, Uncle," Kili whimpers as Thorin taking the soaked towel from Kili's forehead and squeezing it into the basin, "I'm slowing us down."

"I would rather you were rested anyway," Thorin tells him, "We have time."

"Not a lot," Kili replies, "I'll do my best to recover quickly."

"Don't strain yourself," Thorin argues, "You'll be of less use if you're anything less than healthy."

Fili makes a sound that seems disapproving, and Thorin turns to him with a question on his face. Kili snorts, chuckling a little.

"It's okay, Fi," Kili says, "I understand. His intentions are clear."

Fili narrows his eyes at Thorin, but leaves the matter alone for now. Instead, he walks over to the bed slowly, and nudges at Kili's injured ankle carefully. It had been treated to the best of Oin's abilities, and now it's wrapped tight in bandages, but the poison in the Orc arrow had nevertheless taken its toll.

"I'm all right," Kili reassures Fili, "Doesn't hurt anymore."

But when Kili stretches and tries to move his ankle, he lets out a rather undignified yelp, causing both Thorin and Fili to start. Fili lets out a low roll of his tongue, and it sounds rather angry.

"All right, I was wrong," Kili remarks, offering his family a tiny laugh to reassure them.

"Rest, Kili," Thorin says gruffly, rising from his seat, "There is still far too much ahead of us."

When he leaves, it is in a huff. Kili's face falls, guilt written all over it.

"He speaks as though I had meant to be shot with the arrow," he says, "As if it had been my intention to be harmed."

Fili nudges at Kili's hand to comfort him, and Kili sighs.

"I know, Fi," Kili replies, "I know, but it still stings."

Fili appears to cock his head to one side in noncommittal agreement. With one more nudge at Kili's fingers, he turns to go, his tail swishing behind him.

"Wait," Kili calls, and Fili stops, "Will you stay with me? Please?"

Fili turns large feline eyes at Kili, who picks at the sheets.

"I sleep better knowing you're near," Kili confesses, "Please, Fili?"

Fili seems to take in Kili's form, from his fevered face to his bandaged ankle. Finally, he nods, and Kili lets out a small sigh.

"Thank you," he mutters, offering Fili a gentle smile.

Fili curls up on the floor just below the bed as Kili settles back in, his hand over the edge of it, his fingers in Fili's mane.

 

\--- + --- + --- + --- + --- + --- + --- + ---

 

Kili sputters, blood spraying the ground as he coughs. He looks up and reaches for his bow, only for Bolg's massive foot to come down on it and snap it clean in half. And then Kili is yelping as Bolg grabs a handful of his hair and yanks him up off his knees and into the air. Bolg laughs darkly as he positions Kili far from his reach and points the edge of his deadly sword at his throat. With a malevolent smile, Bolg rears back –

Only to be knocked aside when Fili comes charging, sinking his teeth into Bolg's side as he rams into him. The pain makes the huge, malformed Orc drop Kili, who scrambles to his feet. But Bolg finds his footing again as well, his sword still in his hand. Fili stands in front of Kili, crouched low and ready to attack, growling, his eyes never leaving Bolg.

Bolg growls something in the grating tongue of their race, and it sounds like a challenge. It is enough for Fili to leap at him, aiming for his arm. Bolg sidesteps, laughing, knocking him in the back of the head with the hilt of his weapon. Fili is winded, but not for long. He charges again, jumping off of a ledge and catching Bolg's armoured shoulder in his teeth. Fili drags him down, clawing at him with a vengeance and trying to reach for his throat with sharp teeth.

But Bolg manages to get his feet underneath Fili, and he kicks out hard. Fili goes flying, landing out of Kili's eyeline. Shouting for his brother, Kili runs after him and Bolg, all weapons forgotten in his distress. When he finds them again, Bolg is throwing Fili hard against a jagged stone wall. The impact makes Fili whimper, and he lands awkwardly on one of his legs. Kili watches as Fili struggles to get back up, only for Bolg to kick him down hard. This only serves to enrage Fili, who grabs Bolg's ankle in his mouth and drags. It is Bolg's turn to be thrown against the tree. But Fili is unsteady on his injured foot, and the effort takes him a good distance away from Bolg –

Who lands too close to his fallen spear.

Kili doesn't even think twice.

His feet take him where he needs to go, his hands and arms reaching out to defend.

He falls with a heavy thud, Bolg's spear having gone through his front and out his back.

Fili's roar is deafening, but Bolg is already making his escape, laughing maniacally.

Instead, Fili turns his attentions to Kili, who is barely stirring. Blood is already seeping out of him, pooling around him. Whimpering, Fili crouches down, nudging at Kili's head.

Kili's eyes flutter open, and he gives his brother a weak smile. "You're okay," Kili notices, his voice soft. He reaches up, intending to stroke Fili's mane or back to calm him, but Fili uses it to somehow roll Kili onto his back. Even with an injured foot, Fili rushes them into the cover of the thicker woods, where, away from the chaos of the battle, he sets Kili down against a tree as gently as he can, snapping the spear in twine with his teeth.

"Fi..." Ki breathes, "Fili..."

"I'm here," Fili whispers, now his Dwarf form again. He strokes his brother's hair, shushing him gently.

"You're all right," Kili says with some difficulty, beaming up at him nevertheless.

"You saved me, Ki," Fili reassures him, "But they're coming again, I have to get you out of here."

Kili shakes his head. "Can't," he confesses, "Hurts...hurts too much. 'Fraid I won't last much longer."

"Don't say that," Fili admonishes him, tearful, "You'll be all right. We'll get to a safe hiding place, and when it's all over, we can get you all patched up, you'll see."

"It's okay, Fi," Kili tells him, "I just...I wanted to protect you...You're always protecting me...took good care of me..."

"I'll keep doing it too," Fili says, determined, "Don't worry, Kili, I'll keep them away."

He starts to move away to shift again into his lion form, but Kili grabs his arm, and when Fili turns to him, Kili is shaking his head again.

"I'll be okay," he promises, "I'm fine. Just...just stay with me here, please, just like this. Please."

Breathing hard through the tightening of his chest, Fili nods, settling down beside Kili.

"What can I do for you, Kili?" he asks, the din of the battle seeming to creep closer to them, "Tell me how to make this better."

But Kili smiles softly up at him. "Just hold me," he answers, "I'm cold."

Fili obliges, pulling Kili to him gingerly until he's got one arm around him, Kili's head comfortably against his chest.

"It's so quiet..." Kili observes, "So quiet and peaceful."

"Is it?" Fili asks. In the distance, the war rages on. Fili wonders if Thorin has noticed their absence yet.

"I'm glad you're here, Fi," Kili says, "Glad I've got you."

"Ssshhh, no more talking," Fili tells him, "Save your strength."

But Kili ignores him. "Always loved you, Fili," he continues, his tone more breath than voice now, "You're my One, Fi. Always was. I love you."

Fili tries to shush him again, but can barely do so anymore. He chokes out a sob instead, and manages to stroke through Kili's matted hair. He hears Kili strain out his name one more time, and he wipes at his tears with his own bloodied hand.

"You never kissed me, you know," Kili says, and Fili lets out a single chuckle, perhaps of disbelief, "Always wanted you to. You never did."

"Can I kiss you now?" Fili offers.

"You better," Kili replies, "May not get another chance."

And Fili does. He kisses his brother, because he has always wanted to, but was never sure he could, or should. Kili's lips are cold against his, but they respond to him in their own way, and it's enough. It's more than enough.

It's all he gets.

Kili's last breath is spent against Fili's lips.

 

_**~ END. ~** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it this far, I need to say something.
> 
> If you read this chapter BEFORE I tagged it with character death, and it pissed you off that I hadn't tagged, then I profusely apologize. I'm sure I've ended up betraying your trust because you weren't prepared to have that happen, because my warning in the notes at the start of the chapter (which was put there when I posted the chapter) couldn't be seen. I'm a little shithead, because I'm just trying to keep from losing any more readers, and that was my main objective for not tagging in the first place. I've not been getting as many hits as I used to, and that's doing incredibly stupid things to my confidence about posting my stuff online. Yes, it's incredibly selfish and evil to not tag when most people in fandoms look for fanfic that defy canon deaths because they bring the sads, and I do apologize. I don't want you to think that I don't care about my readers, as is implied somewhere in the comments. I know it totally looks it, but please know that I do honestly care about every single one of you, and I'm really, REALLY sorry if you were blindsided by the death in this chapter, and in any subsequent fills.


	3. GORMITAGE - Dean is tutor to Richard's teenage son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I have another Gormitage-prompt for you: Richard is a single dad of a teenage boy and Dean comes into their lives as a tutor, it's obvious, what is going to happen :) Plus points if Richard gets in trouble with his son, because the boy doesn't want his father to have an affair with the first tutor he actually likes, because he doesn't want to lose him.

Richard is typing up a rather long e-mail when his son barges into his office without knocking. It’s not this that really bothers Richard though. It’s when his son plants his hands on the edge of his table and bends over just enough so that his face is but half a foot away from Richard’s ear. Richard can _feel_ him glaring. He waits to see if he’ll speak, continuing to tap away at the keys on his laptop, but his son just stares. And stares. _And stares_.

“Yes?” Richard offers, if a little annoyed, when silence pervades.

“We need to talk,” says his son tersely.

“What about?” Richard doesn’t even look up from the e-mail that he still hasn’t finished.

“You know what about.”

“There’s always something to talk about with you.”

“ _Dad_.”

Richard sighs heavily. “Fine,” he replies after a while, “Just let me finish this. Two minutes.”

“No,” answers his son, “Now.”

“Can’t it wait two bloody minutes?” Richard huffs, “I really need to get this sent.”

His son scoffs. “Fine,” he relents, “But I’m literally waiting, and I’m not leaving until you’re done.”

Richard doesn’t even get another word in when his son stomps off to the other end of the study and drops himself onto the couch, crossing his arms and resuming his staring. Richard goes on typing, although he can’t help but keep looking over the top of his monitor at his teenage boy, a near-spitting image of himself in his crossness. An emphatic press of the _enter_ button and a mouse click on “send” later, Richard is pushing his chair back and crossing the room, planting himself an arm’s length from his kid.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“...Dean.”

Richard sighs again, his posture slackening. He lets his head fall back onto the backrest of the couch, his long legs stretching outwards. “Crispin,” he moans, “We’ve talked about this.”

“No, _I’ve_ talked about this,” Crispin scoffs, “I hoped you would have at least listened, but you didn’t. You never do.”

“Of course I listen,” Richard argues.

“Then what the fuck are you doing?” Crispin asks, irritated.

“First of all, watch your language,” Richard admonishes, his voice level, “Secondly, what is so wrong with trying to make friends?”

“Dad, you’re not ‘trying to make friends,’ replies Crispin, “You’re trying to get into his pants, that’s what you’re trying!”

Richard flushes. “I am _not_!” he protests, well aware how silly they look with the roles reversed, “I am...Cris, I am _not_. There’s nothing wrong with me striking up a conversation to make him feel welcome and comfortable in our home.”

“Yeah, but your conversations last for no less than an _hour_ , dad,” Crispin points out, “And it gets to a point where you get all creepy and just _leer_ at him while he’s talking.”

“I do not _leer_. I merely enjoy listening as he regales me with stories of what else he does outside of tutoring.”

“In his cute little Kiwi accent?”

“ _Crispin_.”

“And let’s not forget that you _also_ talk about where he grew up, how he came to be here, if he has any pets, where he likes to hang out, his father’s bowel movements --”

“Of course not!”

“The point is, dad, you’re literally about a step away from asking to meet his parents! The only reason you haven’t fallen under the ‘creepy stalker’ label is that you don’t follow him home! Unless you do when I’m not looking.”

“I do not follow him anywhere, Crispin.” Richard breathes. “Why does it bother you so much anyway?”

“Because I don’t want you having a relationship with my tutor, that’s why!” Crispin protests, “You remember how well it went the _last_ time, don’t you?”

Richard purses his lips. “Might I remind you, young man, that it was the other way around the last time,” he says, “I was in no way interested, but Martin was pushy, and when I put my foot down, he left.”

“So did pops,” Crispin finishes darkly, turning away. He never has been able to forgive Richard for Lee leaving. Whether or not it really had been Richard’s fault is still up in the air, but Crispin had been so attached to Lee when he was growing up that Richard had thought it kinder to not correct him on the matter.

Just like now. Instead, Richard just lets out a low, slow breath. He reaches out, as if to touch Crispin on the shoulder, but thinks better of it and withdraws his hand. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, “You’re right. It’s selfish of me.”

“Damn right it is,” Crispin says, “D’you ever stop to think about how awkward it makes me to feel to see you flirting with my tutor? The only saving grace is that he doesn’t flirt back. Oh my God, imagine what it’d be like if he _did_ though.”

“It might be a little easier on my wallet, for one thing,” Richard jokes, but Crispin is clearly unamused by it, and he sobers up rather quickly, “Look, I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable or anything, okay? I just...I don’t go out a lot anymore, my work keeps me busy and pretty much alienates from the rest of the world anyway. But if you want me to, I’ll back off.”

Crispin nods slowly. “...Good,” he says.

“Do you want me to back off?” Richard asks.

“Yes, dad,” Crispin replies firmly, “I would really like for you to back off.”

Richard mimics his son’s slow nodding. “Okay then,” he answers, “I’ll back off. I promise.”

Crispin relaxes at last. He claps his father on the shoulder. “Thanks,” he breathes, “And I’m sorry. I mean, if you’re genuinely into him and all that. I know he’s pretty great, but...you know...”

Richard shrugs. “There’ll be others,” he says, but the way Crispin just gives him a brief raising of his eyebrows tells him how half-hearted he sounds.

“There’ll be others,” Crispin replies as the intercom crackles to life, and Maria announces that the very subject of their discussion has arrived for today’s lessons, “Speak of the devil.”

“You behave, all right?” Richard bids as he and Crispin get up off the couch simultaneously.

“Right back at you,” Crispin answers, earning himself a light punch to the forearm. He laughs, and so does Richard, who can’t help but smile at him.

“You know, they say you look like me when you’re angry,” Richard tells him as they make their way out to the lounge, “But when you smile, you look so much like Lee.”

“I’ve heard, dad,” Crispin assures him, “A million times. From you.”

Dean is already waiting in the receiving room when father and son arrive. Dean flashes them a winning smile, his hands shoved into the pockets of his denim jacket, and Richard has to suck in a breath. Unfortunately, Crispin hears, and smacks him across the stomach with the back of his hand, causing Richard to exhale sharply.

“Mr Armitage, good afternoon,” Dean greets, already extending his hand out to shake Richard’s, “Hullo, Cris.”

“Hey,” Crispin greets.

“How are you today, Dean?” Richard asks warmly, relinquishing Dean’s hand after an all too brief handshake, “Hope the rain didn’t catch you.”

“Did a bit,” Dean replies with a tiny shrug, “Nothing I couldn’t handle though.”

“Can we offer you anything while you’re at your lessons?” Richard offers, “Coffee? Tea? Biscuits?”

 Behind Dean, one of Crispin’s eyebrows is travelling up his forehead. Richard clears his throat.

But Dean just shrugs again. “I’ll be fine,” he answers, “But to be honest, coffee sounds really good; I was up almost all night editing shots from my last photoshoot. Couldn’t find it in me to stop, you see.”

Richard smiles, about to take up the conversation, but Crispin fixes him with a look. Richard feels his shoulders slackening, and he puts his hands into his pockets. “I’ll have Maria fix you a cuppa and bring it to you then,” he says instead.

“Oh,” answers Dean, seeming a little taken aback, “Sure, sounds great, thanks.”

“Hey dad,” Crispin pipes up, “Haven’t you got that thing at work to get back to?”

Richard shoots him a glare of his own. “I do, actually,” he replies anyway, “I’ll leave you boys to it then. I’ve got your cheque for next month in my office, Dean, shall I just have it brought to you?”

“Nah, I’ll just come by later to get it,” says Dean good-naturedly.

“Maria should really probably just handle it,” Crispin interjects.

“Don’t be silly, Cris, it’s no trouble,” Dean counters, “It’s just a little detour. Come on, you’ve got exams in a couple of days.”

Richard watches them go, and when they’re a good distance off, Crispin turns quickly to his father, and he almost – almost – looks apologetic.

\--- + --- + --- + --- + --- + --- + ---

A sharp knock to the door isn’t enough to steal all of Richard’s attentions from his work. “It’s open,” he calls. He looks up only when he hears the knob clicking and the door swinging open.

“Hey,” Dean greets with a tiny smile, “Just came by for the cheque.”

“Oh,” Richard says, a little distracted now, “...Right. Er, come on in, I guess.”

Dean does, closing the door behind him, and Richard pulls open a drawer, drawing his cheque book out when he finds it. Quickly, he scribbles Dean’s name and their agreed payment, reading it over three times before he signs it and tears it carefully out. He rises from his chair and walks around his table to hand the cheque over to Dean.

“As promised,” Richard declares as he reaches the cheque out to Dean.

Dean takes it with one hand, and then with the other he pulls at Richard’s wrist, and Richard finds himself pressed into Dean, their lips locked to each other, Dean’s hand climbing up his arm and his shoulder until it’s somewhere in Richard’s hair. Automatically, Richard’s hands are on Dean’s hips, pulling him in closer as he deepens their kiss, and Dean sighs into it, and God, doesn’t this feel nice and sweet and _right_ and –

Against his better wishes, Richard urges Dean away. “Can’t,” he sighs, breathless from Dean’s kiss, “Can’t do this.”

“Nobody’s going to come in,” Dean reassures him, a playful smile on his face, “I locked the door.” He tries to go in for another kiss, but Richard stops him. His expression changes quickly. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Richard shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, “I can’t—We can’t do this, not anymore.”

“What? Why not?” Dean asks, confused, “Did you meet someone while you were away? Coz, I mean, you were gone a whole month, and I missed the _fuck_ out of you, you wouldn’t let me contact you, and --”

“Oh God, Dean, no,” Richard replies, trying to ease some of Dean’s shock, “It’s not that, it’s definitely not that. It’s just...Crispin isn’t too happy about this. Or at least, with what he knows. If he knew everything, I think he’d murder me.”

“Cris?” Dean asks as Richard lets him go and flops onto the couch, “What’s wrong with Cris?”

Richard rubs at his eyebrow with a finger. “He doesn’t want me getting involved with you,” he tells Dean truthfully, “He thinks it’ll scare you off, and he really likes you.”

“That’s sweet,” Dean answers, still perplexed, “But...What’s it matter to him though? Did you tell him I would consider lowering my rates for you?”

“He wasn’t amused. He just...He just really likes having you around, and it shows. His grades have definitely improved, and he’s become a lot more driven and focused at school. He thinks that you and I being in a relationship would be awkward. Actually, scratch that – it already _does_ make him feel awkward, when he catches me with you.”

Dean joins him on the couch. “That’s not all it is though, is it?”

“He hasn’t stopped blaming me for Lee. I think there’s a part of him that’s scared of getting hurt even more if the same thing happens again.”

“It’s been five years.”

“I know it has, but he was way too young when Lee walked out.”

“But you want this. You want this as much as I do.”

“He doesn’t see that at this point. He’s too young to understand. He thinks he isn’t, but he is.”

“Then I’ll help him understand. I’ll tell him I’m in love with you because you’re a great person and an even better fuck.” Dean tries for another kiss, but again, Richard stops him.

“We’re trying not to scar him, remember?”  Richard snorts, but quickly turns serious, “Look, you’re wonderful, you really are. You’re exciting. You get to do a lot of the things I wish I had given myself the freedom to. You’re great with him too, you just get him to behave when I can’t. He sees a close friend in you, and I think that’s where the problem lies. He’s too close to you, too attached to you. I think he cares about you more than he does me.”

Dean reaches out and touches Richard’s cheek gently with his palm. “Don’t say that, he loves you.”

“And I love _him_ ,” Richard tells him, “and I’ve...I’ve got to put his happiness before mine. That’s what a good parent does, isn’t it? They put their kids before themselves.”

“What about me?” Dean asks, “Where does _my_ happiness come in here?”

The smile Richard gives him is a sad one. “Believe me, Dean,” he says, turning his head slightly to kiss at Dean’s wrist, “I want to be the one to help you get that happiness, I really, _really_ do. But I can’t. For my son’s sake.”

Dean sighs sadly, blinking up at nothing in particular. “This isn’t what I wanted,” he confesses, “A whole month without you...I just wanted to welcome you home, you know. I wanted to show you how much I missed you. And instead, we get... _this_. I was looking forward to making love to you again, and instead we’re breaking up.”

Richard reaches up and takes Dean’s hand in both of his. He rubs at the back of Dean’s hand with a thumb soothingly. “You know,” he says quietly, not quite looking up at Dean, “This might sound strange, but just because one is happening, doesn’t mean the other can’t still.”

Dean cocks his head to one side. “What? Make sense.”

Richard shrugs a little. “I don’t...I don’t want it to end like _this,_ ” he says, “If we’re really over – and I’m afraid we are – I want us to go out on a high note. I don’t want to look back at this and remember your face the way it is now, looking so sad, I don’t want to remember being sad about this either. I mean, it’s a sad occasion, but you know, that’s not what I want to think of.”

Dean is watching Richard’s progress on his skin, and “progress” is exactly what it is; Richard’s touch is gradually escalating from calming and comforting to sweet and sensual. “And what would you want to think of?”

“Your touch,” Richard replies easily, “Your kiss. The way you say my name. The way you feel around me. The way you feel on me. The way you look when you’re so close and so desperate for it. The way you cling to me when you do finally come. The smile you give me when we’re done, that lazy, tired smile. Because I love it when you smile, and I love making you smile. I think it’s beautiful. I think _you’re_ beautiful. I don’t want to think about breaking up with you, I want to remember making love to you. That’s what I want.”

And then that’s exactly what happens. It doesn’t take much coaxing, because Dean kisses Richard like he’s so in love with him, as if this is their first time together. Sucks Richard’s cock like his life depends on it. Lets Richard stretch him and open him and peg him with practiced fingers like it’s the greatest feeling in the world. And sure, they keep their shirts on the whole time, but when Richard reaches for the condom he’s always keeping in his wallet (there’s never one anywhere in the house; wouldn’t want Crispin finding them randomly), Dean stops him.

“Wanna feel you,” Dean tells him breathlessly, straddling Richard where he’s sitting, their erections pressing together almost sweetly, “Just this one last time. I just wanna feel you, please.”

Richard doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just kisses Dean again, tongue delving deep as if he’s trying to commit to memory the way Dean tastes. His gasp is lost in Dean’s mouth when he feels Dean’s hand, coated in convenience-store bought lube that Dean always manages to remember, wrapping itself around his prick and stroking the way he knows Richard loves. And then their mouths come apart as Dean moans, the sound coming low in his throat, when he starts to slowly lower himself onto Richard, the heat of him swallowing Richard tightly. Richard muffles his own groan in Dean’s shoulder, although he nearly loses his composure once Dean is fully seated on him, his cock almost to the hilt inside him.

“Move,” Dean pleads into Richard’s ear, arms around Richard’s shoulders, “Please.”

And Richard does, clamping his hands on Dean’s hips and thrusting up into him. Dean is mewling and whimpering at the friction, but Richard kisses softly at his skin, shushing him, telling him he’s right there, that he’s got him, that he won’t let him go, that he loves this, loves _him_...

Although Richard adds some force, they keep their pace languid, as if they’ve got all the time in the world, and at Dean’s hushed begging, Richard re-angles his hips, and with one smooth thrust knobs right at the sensitive gland inside Dean. Richard has always loved that little punched-out sound Dean makes everytime he hits Dean’s prostate for the first time, and it’s a sound he’s sure to not forget anytime soon. He pulls Dean almost completely off him, only to thrust right up again, aiming right for the same spot, and Dean all but crumples.

It doesn’t take much after that for Dean to come, and incoherent and addled as he is, Dean still has the foresight somehow to push Richard’s shirt up and out of the way, spilling onto the skin of his torso instead. He buries his face in the backrest of the couch as he growls, but when Richard is sure he’s done, he manoeuvres them so that Dean is on his back on the seat of the couch, looking up at Richard, who can’t – won’t – take his eyes off of Dean as he begins to work towards his own release. It isn’t far off, not with Dean smiling up at him the way Richard likes, blue eyes fixed on his own. With one hand planted just beside Dean’s head on the cushion, Richard reaches with his other hand and wraps Dean’s leg around his hip, using it to anchor himself for more forceful thrusts.

“Fuck, Dean,” he grinds out, “Close...So close.”

“I know,” Dean breathes, “Fuck, can still feel you. Come on, give it, I want it.”

“Say it, Dean,” Richard manages to beg, and yes he’s begging, but he doesn’t care, this is their last time together, “Fuck, say it for me, please.”

Dean reaches up, wrapping a hand around Richard’s neck. “I love you, Richard,” he sighs, “Fuck, I love you.”

And that’s it, that’s exactly what Richard wanted, what he _needed_ , and he kisses Dean hard as he manages to pull right out of him at the last second, coming onto the couch and across Dean’s skin. Dean swallows the sounds Richard makes, not letting him go until Richard is breathless but completely spent. Dean’s lips slide across Richard’s jawline, kissing him just below the ear as Richard struggles to get his breath back. It’s only when both their heart rates have returned to normal that they pull apart, starting to clean off and recompose themselves.

And then too soon, Richard is standing at the edge of his table, Dean at the door, just a few feet of distance between them but feeling like a whole universe apart already.

“I should...” Dean trails off.

“Yeah,” Richard agrees, because he doesn’t want to hear Dean say it any more than Dean wants to say it in the first place.

“I’ll, er, I’ll let Cris know I’ll see him on Tuesday then,” says Dean.

“He’s got practice after school,” Richard reminds him, “So you’ll have to move to a later hour.”

“Right,” Dean replies, “...Will you be here?”

Richard’s throat is slightly dry. “I’ll probably be home late,” he says with a shrug, “Meetings or whatever.”

“And on Thursday?” Dean asks.

“And on Saturday too, most likely,” Richard supplies.

Dean nods once, understanding the implications. “Okay,” he says softly, “As long as Maria knows I’m coming over.”

“I’ll remind her,” Richard promises.

Silence.

“Well...”

“...Yeah.”

“Bye then.”

“Goodbye, Dean.”

The sound of the door clicking close behind Dean echoes around the room and rings in Richard’s ears for days.

 

 

**_~ END. ~_ **


	4. Aidean - Thunder Storms and Blanket Forts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **PROMPT** : Hi! A prompt involving aidean, blanket forts and a storm outside bc I find this idea cute as hell? :}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of death and dying.

Dean doesn’t like storms.

Moreover, Dean doesn’t like strong storms.

Even more than that, Dean doesn’t like strong storms with lots of lightning and thunder.

He never has, and he never will.

But that _still_ doesn’t stop Aidan from being taken completely by surprise when he finds he can’t even find space to walk inside Dean’s trailer because of all the pillows and blankets that have been set up.

The storm’s way too strong to allow any more filming for a while, and they’d been told to retreat to the safety of their trailers until the storm dies down, if ever. That had been _two hours ago_. Aidan had taken the opportunity to catch up on some sleep, his poor body protesting all the hard training for the Battle for three days now. With Dean literally just a stone’s throw away, he hadn’t thought to check up on him.

 _I really probably should have_ , Aidan thinks to himself as he steps around sheets, afraid that if he steps the wrong way on something, the entire fort would collapse.

“You in here, Deano?” he calls, carefully pushing aside one blanket that Dean had somehow managed to tie from one end of the ceiling to the other.

“That you, Aid?” Dean calls back.

“Who else would I be?” Aidan replies, having to shout just a little bit as the strong rains pummel the metal of the trailer, “Is this what you’ve been up to for the past couple of hours?”

“No,” Dean answers from where he’s sat on the floor, fingers tapping away at the buttons of the PS2’s controller, “This only took me an hour to put up, I’ve been playing _CoD_ since then.”

A flash of lightning, quickly followed by a huge blast of thunder that sounds like it came from right outside the window, startles Dean enough to make him drop the controller.

“Fuck it!” Dean groans.

“Aww, poor little puppy,” Aidan coos, finding himself a spot on the floor with Dean, “C’mere to Uncle Aidan.”

“I’m fine, Aidan,” Dean grimaces.

Another roar of thunder, this time a little farther but no weaker, proves him wrong.

Dean growls, putting the controller down and putting his wigged head in his hands. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” he mutters.

It’s happening again. Aidan’s since this happen to Dean only once before, during principal photography. The storm that had flooded the river had brought quite the thunderstorm with it, and Dean had huddled into his bed with his comforter up around him, trying to block the sounds out to no avail. Aidan does now what he did then; he scoots close to Dean, puts his arms around him and pulls him in, putting Dean’s head on his lap.

“I really fucking hate thunder,” Dean whines.

“I know, babe, I know,” Aidan says softly, rubbing at Dean’s arm soothingly, “It’s okay, I’m here, I’ve got you.”

“Lightning’s really awful too,” Dean points out as said flash of light goes off again outside the trailer.

“Well, just think of it as the flash of the camera when you’re taking a picture,” Aidan says, “Maybe someone up there is taking pictures of us down here.”

“Camera flashes can’t electrocute you though,” Dean observes.

“...Ah. Good point.”

“We really shouldn’t even be _in here_ ,” Dean says, “The trailer is fucking metal on the outside, I mean, sure it’s painted, but there’s still metal, it’ll conduct the electricity and fry us in here.”

“That’s why you put up a blanket fort?”

“At least I’ll die in a pretty cool place.”

Aidan smacks him in the back of the head for that, and he can’t help but revel in Dean’s pained grunt.

“What was that for?!” Dean protests.

“I told you not to say things like that!” Aidan replies, “You know I don’t like it when you talk about you dying.”

“It’s gonna happen one day,” Dean says.

“Yeah, but not _yet_ ,” Aidan answers, “And I don’t even want to think about that, because no matter _when_ it happens, if it happens before me or without me, I’m gonna be so damn sad. I’d be miserable and I’d hate everything and I’m going to waste away in some old rocking chair in some abandoned home with dusty floors and cobwebby walls and broken windows. And you know what I’ll be thinking?”

“What?”

“I’ll be thinking that I hope you’re in a better place and that you’re happy and safe and that you’ve punched whoever makes lightning and thunder in the dick.”

Dean actually guffaws. “I just pictured me socking the movie Thor in the crotch up in heaven,” he says, bursting into laughter before he can even finish the sentence. Aidan joins him as soon as he’s done, because honestly, it’s pretty fucking funny. Ickle Deano punching that gigantic Hemston or Hiddlesworth fella or whatever his name is right in the babymakers, shouting “That’s for scaring me shitless while I was alive, asshole!”

He doesn’t say it out loud though, because he knows _he’ll_ get a one-two right to the family jewels if he talks about that. Instead, he smiles down at Dean, stroking his hair even if he knows he’s not going to feel it much because it’s a _wig_.

“Better?” Aidan says, deciding not to point out how another flash of lightning gets no reaction from Dean this time.

“Loads,” Dean replies, “But come down here with me on the comforter, it’s comfy.”

“I don’t want to, you stink,” Aidan teases, receiving a pinch to the inner thigh for his troubles, “Okay, okay, geez. So demanding.”

Dean moves off of him to let him lie down, and without words, Aidan slips in behind Dean to spoon him, holding him close. It _is_ nice and comfy down here though. It’s a little colder above them.

“You’re so good to me, Aid,” Dean mumbles sleepily, his game still going but forgotten.

“You really do stink, Deano,” Aidan replies. Dean elbows him, and Aidan just laughs.

“Hush up,” Dean says, switching accents, “You can’t say that, I’m your older brother.”

“That’s _exactly_ why I can say that,” Aidan answers, picking the accent up as well.

“Stop it or I’ll seduce you,” Dean counters, still in the same voice.

“You mean you’ll _try_ ,” Aidan shoots back.

“...Yeah, I’m too sleepy,” Dean laughs, dropping the act, “Just don’t snore, okay, you’re right at my ear.”

“I do not fucking snore, O’Gorman,” Aidan protests.

“That’s what you think, Turner,” Dean scoffs.

“Oh, go to sleep, you,” Aidan tells him, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Dean’s hand finds Aidan’s around his waist, and their fingers intertwine.

“I know.”

 

 

**_~ END. ~_ **


	5. RICHAIDAN - Desperate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_PROMPT_** : richardxaidan frantic, desperate making out and rutting against each other on any surface they can get to

He was expecting it, but that still doesn’t stop Aidan from jumping a little when Richard hisses his name. He’s got enough wits about him to wonder at how even inside the safety and privacy of his trailer they have to be quiet, but then he’s turning around, and Richard’s mouth is finding his, and then his mind blanks, as it always does. Richard’s kisses are always hot, usually hungry, but this one is desperate and needy, and Aidan can’t blame him. Especially not tonight.

“What kept you?” Aidan asks breathlessly. He can feel the edge of the kitchen counter pressing into him from behind.

“Everyone,” Richard replies with a slight huff, “Couldn’t get out of there fast enough though.” He kisses Aidan again, who can only respond with a sort of helpless mewl.

Aidan claws at Richard’s sweat shirt as Richard presses into him, and he can feel Richard’s excitement against his thigh. He’s tired – they _both_ are – but goddammit, they’ve been going hard for the past two weeks of filming, haven’t they?

“Fuck me,” Aidan pleads when Richard’s mouth travels down his jawline to nip at his neck.

“No time,” Richard answers, hips bucking against Aidan all the same.

“Goddammit,” Aidan scoffs. He takes matters into his own hands, taking one of Richard’s hands and shoving it down the front of his pants. Aidan hisses loud when Richard’s fingers close around his cock, and he can’t help pulling at Richard’s hair when Richard’s hand starts moving on him.

Richard kisses his way up Aidan’s shoulder, to the side of his throat, to the shell of his ear, then to Aidan’s mouth again. “We really shouldn’t,” he says, but there’s a tiny smile there that Aidan hears rather than sees.

“Yes,” Aidan groans, hips jutting into Richard, “We really should.” Richard pushes a knee between his legs, his clothed erection against Aidan, and Aidan lets out a harsh swear.

“Turn around,” Richard tells him, biting at his lower lip.

Aidan can’t obey fast enough, and once he’s facing the sink, hands braced on the edges, Richard’s hands work desperately to push Aidan’s bottoms down. Aidan hears himself sigh needily when Richard’s fist closes around him again, and then it’s moving quick and tight, and Aidan’s knees nearly buckle. The only thing keeping him standing is Richard pressing hard into him, hips rutting against Aidan’s skin, and he can feel the heat even through Richard’s sweat pants. Richard is groaning and moaning behind him, right into the skin of his nape, and he can feel Richard’s beard scratching at his skin shallowly.

“Fuck, Rich,” Aidan hisses, “Not too fast...”

“Can’t,” Richard manages to breathe, “They’ll suspect.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Aidan replies, but Richard gives him a rather vicious squeeze, and he cries out, bucking into the kitchen counter first and then back against Richard. “You little shit.”

Richard just laughs breathily, continuing to pump his fist on Aidan’s cock. It’s all a little too much pressure and heat and friction, and _fuck, that’s good_ , and Aidan pounds his fist on the counter, telling Richard as much. Richard responds by kissing him on the shoulder. But Aidan wants more, needs more, and he’s pretty sure all it would take from Richard is the right word before he’s undone. He tries to tell Richard, but Richard doesn’t really need telling, not if the way Aidan is jerking back into him is any indication to go by. Richard’s hand moves up, tightens just around the head, and then twists down. The whimper that escapes Aidan borders on pathetic, but Richard just laughs almost darkly into Aidan’s skin, and it sends a nice little shiver down Aidan’s spine.

It’s too soon, but familiar, delicious heat is already starting to pool in Aidan’s belly. Richard’s always been way too good at everything he does, _including this_ , and it’s just insane how all that skill is focused on _him_ and _OhGodRichardICan’tNotYetPleasePleasePlease_.

“Yes, you can, Aidan,” Richard says hoarsely, his free arm tight around Aidan’s body and holding him close even as his hips continue to grind against him languidly, a sharp contrast to his fist, “Do it for me, babe, come on...”

“ _Riiiiiiiich_ ,” Aidan whines, reaching back and pulling at Richard’s hair, “Don’t want to yet...Not yet, please...”

“Want it, Aid,” Richard moans, turning his head and kissing Aidan briefly as if in persuasion, “Give it, come on...”

And despite himself, Aidan is _so_ going to, because Richard loves him, loves doing this to him, because it’s torture and Richard’s got a dark streak to him, and someone help, Aidan’s so fucking in love with him. Oh, and he’s close. And getting closer. He doesn’t want it to yet, but his body is betraying him, and it’s creeping up on him. He’s barely moving anymore and barely breathing. His jaw has fallen slack, his eyes closed but loose, and he’s got so very little control over his own faculties.

“So close, Rich,” he manages to say, “God, keep going.”

He’s just about bent at the waist, and Richard is twisting and pulling, the movements slick with Aidan’s pre-come. Richard is still fully clothed, but Aidan can feel him nestled right between his ass, just _there_. His fingers are clawing and clinging to the edge of the kitchen counter. Every breath feels like his last, and they’re drawn out and sucked in almost in time with Richard’s hand.

“Nearly there?” Richard says right into his ear.

“Yeah,” Aidan breathes, “Fuck yeah, Rich.”

Richard confines his movement now to just the upper part, moving tight and fast, and his thumb is at the slit, teasing and urging just as his words are. And when it happens, it blindsides Aidan, who has hardly a second to contemplate that he’s coming and making a mess of Richard’s hand. He lets out a loud cry, his fist pounding down on the counter hard. He’s shuddering in Richard’s arms, but Richard is kissing his skin, muttering sweet little encouragements and soothing him with a hand under Aidan’s shirt, rubbing at the skin of his belly and stomach. He stays there, stroking Aidan loosely but slowly until Aidan’s done.

“Ah fuck,” Aidan sighs, struggling to get his breathing back to normal. His knees feel wobbly, and he can barely feel Richard’s lips on his skin.

“You okay?” Richard asks him, a little breathless himself as he finally lets go of Aidan and pulls Aidan’s clothes back on with a little bit of difficulty. Aidan turns when he can, grabbing Richard by the collar of his shirt and pulling him in. He kisses him hard, relishing the surprised little gasp he draws from Richard, whose hands cling to Aidan. Still kissing Richard possessively, he manoeuvres them towards his bed, where he pushes Richard off of him and onto the mattress.

“Okay...” Richard chuckles a little as Aidan pulls his shirt up and over his head before all but pouncing on him on the bed. He settles himself between Richard’s legs, kissing him hot again, and he can feel Richard’s erection against him.

“Give,” Aidan hisses, sitting back on his calves and working desperately at the drawstrings on Richard’s sweatpants.

“You don’t really have to, you know,” Richard says, “Could get out of here, I’ll take care of this myself.”

“Want it,” is all Aidan says before he’s urging Richard’s hips up so he can pull at the pants and the boxers underneath. He gives Richard enough space to kick his shoes off, and then he’s pulling Richard’s clothes off and tossing them away. He doesn’t give Richard enough time to object, quickly descending on Richard’s prick. When his mouth closes around the head and sucks sharply, his hand tight around the base, Richard hisses, groaning out his name, and it’s music to his ears. The knowledge that Aidan is the only one who sees Richard likes this, can cause him to be like this, doesn’t help Aidan’s innate smugness.

He starts to move, taking more and more of Richard’s cock in as he moves lower. He pumps his hand around whatever won’t fit into his mouth, but he hollows his cheeks, relaxes his jaw and sucks hard to make up for it. It’s more than enough for Richard, whose head is thrown back into Aidan’s pillow, his hands clutching at Aidan’s sheets and Aidan’s hair. His knees are drawing up beside Aidan, and Aidan takes some time to kiss at Richard’s thigh. He can’t imagine how close Richard must be; all the friction from rutting against Aidan clothed must’ve been delicious torture.

Richard’s stomach is dipping with every harsh exhale, and Aidan lets his other hand explore up it and to Richard’s chest under his shirt, teasing at a nipple. Richard’s moaning and groaning is as hushed as they possibly can be, and Aidan can tell it’s taking every ounce of his control to not thrust into Aidan’s mouth. Aidan soothes him by running his tongue languidly from base to head, dipping a little into the slit just to tease. He can already taste Richard there, and he wants more.

“Good, Aidan,” Richard moans, “So damn good at that.”

Aidan hums his appreciation against Richard’s dick, relaxing his jaw just a little bit more to try and take more of him in. A strained, stifled groan is his reward, and he feels the mattress shifting a little as Richard pushes himself up onto his elbows to watch Aidan’s progress.

“Faster,” Richard pleads, and Aidan doesn’t always hear him beg, so he obliges to the best of his abilities. He thinks he hears Richard whimper behind his teeth, somewhere in his throat, and he can’t help but smile a little.

Aidan tightens his fist around Richard even as he continues to twist and stroke, and Richard’s breathing comes harsher now. Aidan’s other hand digs into the ridges of Richard’s torso, the skin there hot under his touch. Richard’s fingers are stroking rather sweetly in Aidan’s hair, and it’s soothing really, but Aidan doesn’t want sweet right now. He grazes the sensitive skin of Richard’s throbbing prick with his teeth, and Richard hisses, hips bucking. 

“Fuck, Aidan,” he hears Richard growl, “Oh shit, close...”

Aidan stops moving his hand, loosens it even, and bobs his head quicker, swirling his tongue when he can, tasting everything that Richard is at that moment. He runs the tip of his tongue along the vein underneath the shaft, and Richard lets an abrupt gasp escape him before it turns into yet another growl when Aidan tongues at the slit again.

“Gotta come, Aid,” Richard exhales, “Come on, Aidan, fuck...”

Aidan doesn’t need telling twice. He moves his hand until he can press a knuckle at Richard’s over-sensitized perineum, at the same time closing his lips just around the head of his cock and sucking. That’s all Richard needs, and with a hard moan, he’s coming into Aidan’s mouth. Aidan takes everything Richard gives him, but he doesn’t let it down his throat. It pools in his cheek and under his tongue. He holds Richard’s hips down his hands, and he can feel Richard trembling in his hands as his orgasm reaches its peak and starts slowing. Aidan doesn’t pull away until he’s sure that Richard is done, and when he does, he goes straight for the sink and spits. 

“Cheat,” Richard accuses with a tired laugh as Aidan rejoins him on the bed, the mattress dipping underneath them both. Aidan answers by kissing him, a little gentler but no less possessive. Richard wraps one arm around his waist and holds him close.

“You okay?” Aidan asks when the kiss breaks, kissing at Richard’s collarbone.

“You know, Dean would have swallowed,” Richard says matter-of-factly.

“You don’t know that,” Aidan retorts.

“Don’t I?” Richard shoots back.

Aidan pushes up enough to glare at Richard, who just smirks at him. “You don’t,” Aidan says.

Richard says nothing for a while, but at Aidan’s continued narrowing of his eyes, he chuckles and relents. “I don’t,” he admits. Aidan reaches across him, grabs a pillow and chucks it at his face, causing Richard to laugh heartily as Aidan tries to get off the bed.

“Nooooooo,” Richard says, pulling Aidan back down.

Aidan can’t help but laugh. “Get off me, you arse,” he says, not making that much of an effort to get away at all.

“No, let’s just stay here,” Richard declares, “Let’s just stay here all night.”

“The party though,” Aidan points out.

“There’ll be another one tomorrow night,” Richard reminds him.

“I know, but still,” Aidan says, sobering, “I mean...it’s the last night of filming, and all...”

They’re both quiet for a bit after that, the prospect of the future silencing them.

“You’re not worried, are you?” Richard says softly, “I mean, we don’t live that far from each other after all...”

“Right, like you’re really gonna take the time to come see me,” Aidan answers with a snort.

“Why, won’t you?” Richard asks him, “Come see me, I mean?”

Aidan plants his chin on Richard’s chest and looks straight at him. “Only if you want me to,” he says honestly, “Do you want me to?”

“What makes you think I don’t?” Richard asks in reply, and when Aidan just shrugs, he smiles sweetly down at him, “You special little snowflake.”

“You’re still an arse,” Aidan answers even as Richard dips his head a little. Aidan meets him in the middle, and their lips make sweet, soothing contact, and they take their time a little bit, until Aidan’s phone rings. Aidan growls into Richard’s chest, feeling it rumble as Richard chuckles. He gropes blindly for it on the table, not even checking to see who it is before answering it.

“Where you at?” Dean says when Aidan answers.

“In heaven, coz I’m dead,” Aidan replies with a huff, and Richard’s nose wrinkles as he stifles a laugh, “What’s up?”

“Nothing, we’re just sort of missing you over here,” Dean says, “Plus, they said they’re gonna show a blooper reel? And they’re threatening that it’s mostly you and me, so I think you might wanna get over here and count how many heads you’re going to be suing.”

“Pfft, I’m there,” Aidan tells Dean, “Grab me a drink, won’t you?”

“Sure,” Dean agrees, “Hey, if you find Richard, would you tell him as well? He slipped off when no one was looking.”

“Yeah, I’ll see what I can do,” Aidan nods, looking up at Richard, “Might have gone for a quick shut-eye in his trailer or something.”

“I’ll bet,” Dean says in a slight hush, his tone just a little knowing, “See you in five, mate.”

**_~ END. ~_ **

 


	6. THORIN/FILI - Distraction (Fix-It AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_PROMPT_** :
> 
> Hello, this is Valandhir from AO3. I have done prompts in my life... so don't bite when I am doing it wrong. I'd love to read one of your Thorin/Fili or Thorin/Kili stories... maybe something where Thorin just discovers his want for one of them (or both even?), or maybe they distract him from the gold? I don't mind a little dubcon, and I adore your smut... but a nice ending would wonderful. Thanks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _ADDITIONAL WARNINGS_** :
> 
> This is **cross generational incest**. This fill deals with **Uncle/Nephew** _consensual_ intercourse. If this is triggering or disturbing to you, please do not continue reading.
> 
> **_DISCLAIMER_** :
> 
> Although I ship this pairing quite a lot, I do not actually condone incest of any kind in real life. Pleas understand that this is fictional work and in no way reflects my views on real life relationships.

There is a side to the King that few people see, and even less are privileged to know.

He has felt himself falling victim to the pull of the gold-sickness, has seen what it can do to him, what it _has_ done to him. The dragon’s loot, though greatly deduced, still sings to him occasionally, and oftentimes he finds his feet directing him towards the ruined but glistening chamber before he can stop himself.

This frightens him. This weakens him. And he cannot be weak, not now. If the kingdom is to be rebuilt quickly, then his people must see him strong and resilient, powerful and in control.

But his Company knows better. His family knows better.

There was a time he would have had his Hobbit to help him deal with his weakness, but no longer. His Halfling has gone back _home_ to his own family with his share of the rewards and spoils, with promises to look in when he can.

He has not done so since leaving.

And so Thorin, King Under the Mountain, often must wrestle himself away from his doom, stopper his own ears from the temptation of one kind of gold to find solace in another form of it.

Fili has never turned his Uncle down, not when his own heart has long beat for him and his affections. He had remained patient and silent, and when Thorin first came to him, he had welcomed him only too eagerly into his bed, had let him claim him and mark him, and it was perhaps more than Fili had imagined it would be. He would have been content with once, but his Uncle returned, and then again, and again, until Fili finally realized why it was that his Uncle seemed to need his company so much. Whether Fili resented the thought that he is little more than a distraction for his Uncle, one cannot say, for he never speaks of it, not even to his brother. Yes, he has been accused of enjoying a higher privilege than most for his secret necessity to the King, but if in exchange he continues to receive the attention he has so long craved from Thorin, then who is to tell them they are wrong?

Fili never knows when to expect his Uncle. Most days, he comes at night, before Fili can even contemplate sleep. Some nights he wakes up to his Uncle banging on his door. Other days Thorin would give him a meaningful look across the hall, and off they would disappear to the King’s chambers, where they cannot be disturbed by anyone. Fili is always ready for him, waiting for him, because Thorin comes and goes at his own will.

As he has tonight.

Fili is reading by torchlight when he hears his door swing open, stone scratching upon stone. He turns to find Thorin standing there in all his kingly glory, his crown set heavy upon his slightly greying head, and a most perturbed expression on his face.

“I need you,” Thorin declares quietly, pushing the stone door closed behind him.

Required, as usual. Desired? Fili likes to think so. Fili likes to _hope_ so.

Wordless obedience to Thorin has always been one of his strongest suits. He proves it again now, as he stands and strips himself as he approaches his Uncle, his cock already beginning to fill with the rush of blood and heat. Thorin’s hands draw him close and pull him in when their lips meet, the kiss hungry but passionate. Thorin’s many layers of fur and leather and chainmail dig into Fili’s skin, but he pays it no mind; it only means he is close to Thorin, where he wants to be.

“On your bed,” Thorin commands him, his voice low in Fili’s ear, “And touch yourself.”

Again, Fili obeys without a word, already familiar with what it is exactly that Thorin likes. As Thorin disrobes, watching Fili the whole time, Fili lays himself back on his bed, his fist moving slow but tight on his cock, his legs spread to show Thorin as much as he can. He bites his lip, keeping his sounds muffled and quiet. Thorin prefers him loud, but this is to tease him, to give his Uncle something to work for. Petulant? Yes. But definitely worth it in the end.

Thorin’s crown is the last to come off, as it always is, and it seems to Fili as if a huge weight is lifted off of Thorin’s shoulders. He seems to almost float towards the bed to Fili, whose fist continues to pump on his now very stiff prick. Thorin watches with darkened eyes, even when he peppers feather-light kisses on Fili’s skin. He starts at Fili’s knee, to his thigh, to the hand moving between his legs, to his stomach, his chest, until he finds Fili’s lips and kisses him again, this time with more heat and a little more urgency. As they kiss, Thorin’s hand pulls Fili off of himself and to his own wakening length. Fili mewls into Thorin’s mouth as he moves his hand, tighter and faster than he would on himself. He feels rather than hears Thorin sigh in appreciation, and before long Thorin is thrusting slowly into his hand. Fili flicks his thumb at the slit on the top, and Thorin hisses, taking Fili’s lower lip between his teeth.

“My Fili,” Thorin sighs, and it almost seems to Fili that he is smiling even a little, “My sweet golden gift.” Thorin dips his head to kiss at the column of Fili’s throat, and Fili’s back arches for more of his touch. Thorin’s lips slide down to his collarbone, his tongue flicking to taste his nephew’s skin. He moves even lower still, and lower, tongue laving at a sensitive nipple and causing Fili to cry out needily. But then he moves even further south, his cock slipping out of Fili’s grasp.

“Uncle?” Fili asks, uncertain.

Thorin answers by pushing Fili’s thighs further apart and planting a small kiss on the head of Fili’s erection. Fili gasps, surprised. He has always given willingly to Thorin, but has never received from him. He’s quite unsure about what is about to happen, but then Thorin licks him from base to top, and Fili’s mind all but stops, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as a whimper escapes him.

When Thorin’s mouth descends on him with a low-throated growl, Fili clutches at the sheets, moaning. Thorin’s mouth is hot and wet, and he is moving oh so slowly, so teasingly, and it is how Fili thinks being consumed by fire must be like. His toes and his fingers convulse, opening and closing and flexing as Thorin works on him, one hand twisting what part of Fili’s shaft he cannot fit into his mouth just yet. Fili fears he will lose control and thrust up into Thorin, and tries to concentrate on not doing so, but when he feels Thorin graze him with his teeth, his entire body shudders. He thinks he hears Thorin chuckle, but then Thorin’s other hand is on Fili’s hip, and it’s enough to remind Fili exactly whose lips, teeth and tongue are on him at the moment.

Fili’s eyes are shut tight in his pleasant disbelief that his Uncle, _King Under the bloody Mountain_ , has his mouth tightly wrapped and moving on his cock. This is not something he has been granted before by Thorin, and though he has imagined it before, he has never had the courage to ask for it (or anything, really). He tries to breathe normally, but his chest heaves with every inhale, and his stomach dips with every exhale, and every breath comes sharp and long. The thought more than the sensation is driving him up the wall, and far too soon he feels himself nearing the edge of his pleasure. He tries to say as much, but all that comes out of him are pathetic stutters and urgent moans.

Still, Thorin seems to understand. With one last flick of his tongue at the leaking hole on the end of Fili’s manhood, Thorin draws away. “Oil,” he says gruffly, and Fili reaches up for the small clay bottle in its rather revered place on a shelf above his bed. He retrieves the bottle and proceeds to uncork it, but Thorin stops him.

“Not for you.”

“...What?”

Something crosses Thorin’s face as Fili sits up in his confusion. “I told you, did I not?” Thorin says, “I need you. My meaning was purposefully left unclear, but understand it now, my Fili. Understand what it is I need from you, and you will understand _why_.”

A heaviness settles in Fili’s heart, and it nearly knocks the breath out of him. He draws closer to Thorin, raising a hand to brush the hair out of his face, placing it behind his ear. “I am here for you, as always,” he promises, “But Uncle...This...I cannot...”

“You can,” Thorin tells him, “You have done so with Kili, yes?”

“Yes,” Fili acknowledges, “But that’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant,” Thorin replies, “And I stand by what _I_ meant. You _can_. For me, my love.”

Love. _Love_.

Thorin has never called him that. Ever. Did he know, perhaps, what it would do to Fili?

Fili kisses Thorin with as much fervor as he can muster, panting just ever so slightly from the sudden rush of emotion and arousal. Thorin deepens the kiss himself, a hand in Fili’s hair, as if trying to prove to Fili that none of his words have been accidental.

Fili is breathless when the kiss breaks, and already his mind seems to be clouding over. He’s still not sure he’s quite grasped the situation, but there’s very little he won’t do for Thorin.

“How do you want it?” Fili asks.

Thorin bends forward, grabbing one of Fili’s pillows and bracing himself with it underneath him. On his knees on Fili’s bed, his legs slightly spread, is _not_ how Fili thought Thorin would be tonight, but now that it’s happening, he’s suddenly realizing how much he has wanted this.

He positions himself just behind Thorin, taking in the rather glorious sight of his King and Uncle all but spread before him, and cannot help but press a tiny kiss to the small of Thorin’s back. With slightly shaking hands, he un-stoppers the clay bottle and covers his fingers in them as generously as possible. He will have to go slow, he reminds himself; who knows when Thorin last gave himself like this to anyone? Besides, slow means control, and he will need all of his own, and perhaps even borrow some from Thorin if he is to do this right.

He teases at the pucker of Thorin’s entrance with a slicked fingertip first before carefully slipping it in, languid in his movements, his eyes flicking between his hand and Thorin’s face. He hears Thorin let out a sigh, and Fili risks a bit more of his finger inside him, and a bit more, until it is in to the knuckle. The breath Thorin lets out is a bit harsher this time, but not negatively so. When his Uncle gives no sign of discomfort, he moves his finger within him, still controlled, and only in minute movements. He watches Thorin’s body relax, and only then ups his pace. He withdraws his finger a bit more this time, and pushes it in a little deeper, eliciting a rather delicious sound from Thorin.

“More, Fili,” Thorin says, and even in this state, he manages to sound imposing. Fili obliges, pulling his finger out to the tip so that a second finger can join it. Again, he goes slow, but this time he feels Thorin’s tightness a little bit more. There is more voice now to Thorin’s groan, and Fili’s hips give a subconscious buck into the air. Watching Thorin’s face still, Fili moves his hand a little quicker, and in rather short thrusts. It is enough to have Thorin clawing at the pillow he had placed beneath his head when Fili was not looking.

Fili thinks he hears Thorin whisper his name, and whether he knows it or not, he twists his hand just _so_ , his fingers curling inside, and Thorin’s entire body jerks, an abrupt cry torn from him and disappearing into the pillow. Ah, there it is. Fili pulls his hand almost all the way out, re-angles his hand and aims for the same spot as he pushes his fingers back in. Thorin moans behind pursed lips, hands near tearing Fili’s sheets. Fili needs more of that sound. He’s never quite heard him like this before, and he thinks it is intoxicating. Every thrust of his hand now aims for that sensitive gland inside Thorin, and as it moves outward, he begins to scissor his fingers slowly and gradually.

Thorin is panting beneath Fili, and his groaning is controlled but only barely so. Fili picks up his speed, widening his fingers inside Thorin, who buries his face in Fili’s pillow. But then Thorin turns his face up again, only long enough to say again, “ _More_ ,” and when Fili obeys and adds a third finger, Thorin’s moan is low and long, and a little relieved. It’s all so hypnotic, and Fili is losing himself, although they’ve barely just begun; he finds just enough coherence to think to himself that this is _nothing_ like his times with Kili.

At Thorin’s breathy order, Fili moves his hand a bit faster, all but shoving his fingers in as far as they would go. Unable to help himself, he bends down and licks just at the spot where his fingers meet Thorin’s hole, and again Thorin’s body bucks. Fili chases it this time with fingers and lips, adding his spit to the lubrication of the oil. When Thorin makes no protest, he moves his tongue a little lower, to the skin between his arse and his sac. Thorin lets out a punched-out sound that Fili has never heard from _anyone_ he has ever bedded. He does it again, and Thorin gasps out Fili’s name, so Fili moves his hand harder, applies his lips, tongue and teeth where he can just to get as much reaction from him as he can. He tries to separate his fingers inside Thorin, who cries out but pushes back onto his fingers. Fili moans into the skin of Thorin’s arse. The musk of their coupling is filling his nose and head, and Fili is hopelessly lost. He has never loved Thorin this way, but he would very much like to keep doing so, if the King should will it.

“Enough,” Thorin manages to say, however with some difficulty, “Need more now. Your cock, Fili, inside me. Now.”

Fili wastes little time, far too ready and willing to obey. Rising up onto his knees, Fili lines himself up behind Thorin. He upends the clay bottle, nearly draining it, onto his erection, stroking it to coat it. His breathing is laboured, more at the thought of what he is about to do than the actual doing of it. He presses the head of his prick just at the entrance, clenches his teeth, and pushes in slow, the pace agonizing. He pushes until the head disappears into Thorin, and gives himself some time to breathe, and Thorin some time to adjust. In front of Fili, Thorin lets himself fall from his hands onto his elbows, and it seems to Fili that he is willing his body to calm down.

But there is only so long that Fili can wait, and he slips another inch or so into Thorin, who growls his approval. “All of it, Fili,” he says roughly, and Fili groans with need. Yes, all of it, he wants all of himself in Thorin, wants to feel Thorin tight around him, wants to hear Thorin call his name greedily. With one hand flat on Thorin’s back, the other grasping Thorin’s hip, he pushes the rest of the way in as slow as he possibly can.

Thorin lets out a throaty moan, echoed by Fili’s rather more pathetic-sounding whimper. Mahal, Thorin is _tight_. And blindingly hot inside. The heat makes Fili’s hips buck, and this time the sound that Thorin makes isn’t quite so positive. Without thinking, Fili licks at his own palm and reaches around to close it around Thorin’s cock, both in apology and to try and ease the discomfort. He gives him a few measured strokes, careful to keep his body in check. It doesn’t take very long for Thorin to relax again, and Fili sighs in relief. Carefully, and with his hand still around Thorin, Fili starts to move his hips back and draw himself out, but Thorin stops him just before the head of it reappears.

“Let go of me,” Thorin commands, “And _do not move_.”

Fili swallows as he does as he’s told. He places both his hands on Thorin’s hips instead, and then Thorin begins to move backward himself. In but a few seconds, Fili’s thoughts go from _I want this so much_ to _Mahal save me,Thorin is fucking himself on me_. He can only watch as Thorin moves against him, finding a rhythm. It is insanely alluring, the vision and thought of Thorin Oakenshield abusing himself on Fili’s cock, and Fili’s jaw falls slack as he pants, moaning at the tight heat of Thorin’s channel engulfing him and freeing him and then engulfing him again, over and over, the pace quickening gradually.

Fili realizes a little too late that it’s not just for show; Thorin is _teaching him_ , showing him what he wants and how he wants it. When he does finally catch on, he tightens his hold on Thorin’s hips and meets him mid-thrust. Thorin hisses, but does not protest. Fili matches his rhythm now, and Thorin abandons his efforts to wrap a hand around his own prick to stroke himself languidly.

“Oh Thorin,” Fili whimpers, “Oh... _fuck_.”

Thorin’s other hand reaches back and finds Fili’s hand, and their fingers intertwine on Thorin’s hip, even as Thorin growls out, “Harder.” Fili silently thanks Mahal as he obliges, and now Thorin is crying out with all his voice. It’s almost too much for Fili to take. He bends over his Uncle, kissing at his shoulder as he continues to fuck him into the pillows underneath him. He sniffs at Thorin’s unruly hair, and laves at his sweating skin, breathes prayers and swears into his ear. The snug heat of Thorin is consuming him, and he shuts his eyes tight as he continues to thrust into him, his movements eased and slicked by the oil.

Behind Fili’s tightly shut eyelids, he is seeing stars and colors bursting into each other with every thrust. And yet when the smoke clears he can still see Thorin, or perhaps Thorin as he is imagining him, his face contorted in ecstasy as Fili ploughs into him. He thinks he can hear Thorin moaning his name, and it has never sounded sweeter in Fili’s ear.

And then Thorin lets out one word, _just one word_ , that Fili did not think he would ever hear him say during their time together.

“Fili...” Thorin breathes, “... _Please_.”

Fili swears loudly in Khuzdul, hips bucking hard. Seemingly driven by a power outside himself, he changes his angle, and when he shoves back in, Thorin shivers, echoing the sound Fili had just made.

“There?” Fili asks in his haze.

“There,” Thorin answers, as needy as Fili has ever heard him.

Fili lets go of whatever last vestiges of control he had been holding on to, rears up onto his knees again and _pounds_ into Thorin, merciless at that sweet weakness of his. There is barely any sound coming from Thorin now, but his jaw his ajar, his eyelids fluttering, his fist stuttering upon his cock. Fili pants and gasps, his stomach drawing in with every harsh exhale as his hips drive into Thorin again and again and again. And now he’s moving as if the very devil himself is at his heels, and Thorin’s body is open to him and moving with him and for him.

Heat begins to pool in Fili’s belly, but he tries to keep it at bay. He wants this to last, _needs_ this to last, because this may _be_ the last time this happens. With almost herculean effort, he opens his eyes, but they fall on Thorin’s face. Thorin’s head is turned to the side and digging into Fili’s pillow. He has the most exquisite expression on his face, as if he’s in some sort of pain but finding pleasure in it. The hold he has on Fili’s fingers have tightened near to ripping them right out of their sockets, but Fili barely has enough wits about him to mind. His cock is throbbing inside Thorin as release slowly creeps up on him, and he’s going to finish before Thorin does, but _fuck_ , this is far too _good_ ,it’s almost criminal.

White-hot heat building in his insides is causing Fili to have difficulty breathing. His pace and rhythm are starting to stutter, but he struggles to keep going, to wait until Thorin commands him to let go. The oil is almost all used up, and he can feel friction now, knows Thorin is feeling the same, but he _needs this_ , and he cannot, for the life of him, stop now, at least not yet, not until...

“Will you come for me, Uncle?” Fili breathes, bending low because he cannot trust his voice to be full enough to be heard, “Will you let go for me?”

“Yes,” Thorin hisses, “Yes, my love...Don’t stop...”

Fili attacks him with whatever force and effort he has left, and he pushes himself as deeply as he can, grunting as he presses himself against Thorin. Thorin all but shouts into Fili’s pillow, and only then does Fili relinquish his hold and continue his thrusting. He’s close, far too close, but Thorin has made no indication that _he_ is, but oh Mahal, he’s going to spill soon, and the only thing keeping him from doing so is the need to see Thorin do so first.

There are no words coming from Thorin now as his own hand speeds up between his legs. “Yes,” Fili moans, watching the muscles in Thorin’s arm work, “Yes, Thorin...fuck, that’s it...”

Thorin’s back flexes, and then arches, and then his slows to a stop. With an abrupt cry, he finds release, ruining Fili’s sheets with his seed. Fili can feel him shaking with the force of his climax, but cannot find it in himself to stop. He fucks Thorin through his finish, drawing it out, causing Thorin to curse at him as his body protests but obliges. Only when Thorin’s body slackens, weakened and barely able to keep Thorin up, does Fili stop moving, although on the brink of release himself. Would Thorin let him...

Exhausted and apparently just a little sore, Thorin moves, answering the unfinished question in Fili’s mind. When Fili loses contact with Thorin’s body, he whimpers urgently. His cock is straining, fit to burst, but Thorin turns, sitting up with some effort, and kisses Fili hard and deep. One hand finds its way to Fili’s head, pulling him in, the other reaching down between them to wrap around Fili’s erection. Fili cries out into Thorin’s mouth as Thorin strokes him with a tight fist, his movements quick and abrupt.

Torture. Sweet, _sweet_ torture, and Fili is floating above everything, seeing everything behind his eyelids as if an outsider. He can see Thorin’s torso heaving as he kisses the life out of him, can see Thorin’s hand moving mercilessly between Fili’s legs, can see himself relinquishing control of his body to Thorin, and then it _happens_ almost without warning. Thorin breaks the kiss, his forehead still pressed to Fili’s, to watch as Fili’s seed bursts forth in ribbons and streams, spilling onto his hand and Fili’s and Thorin’s stomachs. Thorin’s tightened hand milks Fili to the last drop, and Fili’s climax is blinding and massive, and one of the best of his life, if he’s to be honest.

Thorin only stops when Fili lets out a mewl of protest. He lets go of Fili’s prick to wrap his arms around his nephew and draw him comfortingly down. When Fili comes back to himself at last, he finds himself in his own bed but in Thorin’s warm embrace, Thorin’s lips gentle on his damp forehead as he struggles to get his breath back.

“Oh, my Fili,” Thorin whispers soothingly, “My sweet, precious, golden Fili...”

Fili tries to come up with a response, but finds himself still too tired for words. He sighs instead.

“Do you love me, Fili?” Thorin asks softly.

The answer comes quick to Fili. “Like no other,” he replies, and means it.

“Then never leave me,” Thorin says, following it with a small kiss into Fili’s hair, “Never leave.”

Thorin does not say the word again, but Fili can hear the veiled plea in his tone.

“Never,” he promises.

“My loving, golden treasure,” Thorin sighs.

Fili takes it all to heart, listens to Thorin’s heartbeat and letting it lull him to sleep.

 

**_~ END. ~_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOPS I BOTTOM!THORIN'D FOR THE FIRST TIME TEEHEE. Tell me how I did, coz I actually want to write more bottom!Thorin in the future.


	7. BRITCHELL/MITCHERS - Anders ties Mitchell up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **PROMPT** : 
> 
> I almost regret this but not really. Remember the episode where Carl ties up Mitchell to help him detox from blood, and he's sweaty and shirtless and just flipping his shit? I want something like that, only Anders is the one who tied him up to help him through detox

Anders pulls another of his chairs out, plants it firmly on the floor and sits, crossing his legs and arms.

“You lying piece of shit,” Mitchell hisses, struggling against the cuffs, “You smug little fucker.”

Anders tsks mockingly, shaking his head. “That’s hurtful, Mitchell,” he replies evenly, “I’m nothing if not angelic and doing only what is right.”

“Cockface,” Mitchell spits, trying to lunge forward, but bound even to the legs of the chair as he is, all he manages to do is move a few inches forward, “I fucking hate you, wait until I get my hands on you.”

“I’ve heard _that_ before,” Anders snorts.

“I swear to God, Anders,” Mitchell grits, “The first thing I’m going to do when I break out of this is fucking drink you dry.”

“I’ve heard _that_ before too,” Anders states nonchalantly, “And I think we both already know you’re capable of that. Now stop fidgeting, you’re only going to keep hurting yourself.”

“Fuck you!” Mitchell all but yells, and then he’s struggling again, squirming this way and that, muscles going taut as he summons whatever strength he has, but no, there’s no give in the chains that lock his cuffs together nor in the ropes that tie his ankles to the chair. “You fucking boy scout.”

“I’m doing this for your own good, Mitchell,” Anders sighs, actually looking rather frustrated, “You know that.”

“You’re doing this to save your own goddamn neck is what you’re doing!” Mitchell fires back, “Let me fucking go!”

Anders just stares at him for a while, the most unreadable expression on his face. It takes a while for Mitchell to notice that Anders has gone quiet, and when he does, he stops wriggling about, stops hopping about trying to break the chair. He’s panting when he finally stops.

“Why do you have to do that?” Anders asks him quietly, seriously, “Why do you have to put me down like that all the time? I mean…Okay, I know I’m not Mr Perfect, but God, Mitchell, aren’t I allowed to actually _care about you_?”

Mitchell actually has to turn his head away, although whether it’s because he doesn’t want to see the look on Anders’ face or because he doesn’t want Anders to see the look on his, he’s not really sure. “No one cares about me,” he sighs.

“ _I_ care about you,” Anders replies, “Why is that so impossible for you to believe?”

“Because no one CAN care about me, you twat!” Mitchell shouts, “I’m a bloodthirsty killing machine with no sense of guilt or shame, and that’s why we’re so damn _perfect_ for each other, isn’t it, because _I_ can’t be cared about, and _you_ don’t know how to care about anyone other than yourself!”

He regrets it as soon as he’s done saying it. Anders looks like he’s been punched.

“I’m sorry,” Mitchell adds, head hung, “I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry.”

Anders is staring holes right through him, and Mitchell finds himself wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole. Anders really _does_ look hurt, and fuck, he is the _worst_ right now, isn’t he, for doing that to _Anders_ , of all people.

“I’m really sorry,” Mitchell breathes, “It was a ‘heat of the moment’ thing, I’m sorry, baby, please.”

But Anders rises from his seat and starts digging through drawers. All the while, Mitchell mutters apologies and pleas, until Anders, with a triumphant “Ha!” finds what he’s looking for. He crosses back to Mitchell in what seems like two strides, and then suddenly he’s laying a piece of duct tape across Mitchell’s mouth before pulling his chair so he can sit closer to Mitchell.

“Listen here, Drama-cula,” Anders says, “I don’t care what _you_ think you are, because that’s not what _I_ think of you. You may or may not be right, maybe I _don’t_ know how to care about other people, but that’s fine, because I know how to care about _you_. And I do, you little dipshit, I really fucking do. And I know this hurts right now, I know this is hard for you, but if I didn’t do something about this, you’d be out there right now and half of Auckland would be dead. That’s not the kind of blood I want on both of our consciences, the only blood I want between us is our own, so I’m sorry that I have to tie you down like this, but you have to _fucking behave_. And I do this because I love you, you understand that, right?”

Mitchell gives him small nods.

“Now don’t you ever fucking say shit like that to me ever again,” Anders answers, “Because I already _know_ that I’m fucked up like that, but I try – oh my God, do I try – to change little by little _for you_. Not for _anybody_ _else_. For YOU. And that matters to me, for some reason. If you were Mike, or Axl, I wouldn’t give two shits, but no, it’s _you_ , and that fucking hurt me. Do you understand, Mitchell? Do you understand that you hurt me?”

Mitchell nods again, trying to apologize with his eyes.

“Now are you going to say things like that to me again, Mitchell?” Anders asks.

Mitchell shakes his head rather vigorously.

“Are you sorry that you hurt me?”

Mitchell shakes his head no at first, but quickly reconsiders and nods.

“Do you understand I will make you _pay_ for saying shit like that about me _to my face_?”

Mitchell nods, and that’s just not _fair_ now, any consequent boners can _not_ be his fault.

“Do you understand that once you’re okay again, I’m going to prove to you just _how much_ I really care about you, and I cannot and will not be held liable for my actions thereof?”

Whatever it is that Mitchell wants to say (and he wants to say about five different things), he says them all at the same time, but they’re muffled behind the tape.

Still, Anders seems satisfied, as he pats Mitchell’s head like he would an obedient puppy. “Good boy,” he mutters, “I’m going to take the tape off now, okay? And it’s going to hurt like a bitch.”

He doesn’t give Mitchell time to respond. He pulls the tape off with one quick swipe, and Mitchell howls. “Fuck you, that stings!” he gasps as Anders crumples the tape in his hand and throws it away, hardly caring where it lands.

“I _did_ warn you,” Anders replies with a shrug.

“You enjoy it, don’t you?” Mitchell teases, “Causing me pain?”

“It’s on the list of turn-ons, I must admit,” Anders answers, shrugging again.

“A list that also includes several different types of bondage, I’m sure?” Mitchell shoots back, raising an eyebrow, “The handcuffs I knew about already, but the rope? The duct tape? I’m starting to worry about you.”

“Keep going and I’ll show you exactly how handy I can be with the tape,” Anders says, “Are you better now?”

Mitchell spares him another glare for just a second before shaking his head. “Not really,” he tells Anders honestly, “Can still feel it. My throat’s itching bad, I need it, man, I just really fucking need it.”

“I know,” Anders sighs, and Mitchell can hear the sympathy in his voice, “I know you do. But unless you want a rat dinner with a side of possum, there’s really nothing we can do but wait it out.”

“I need something to take the edge off, at least,” Mitchell breathes, “Or something to distract me.”

He nearly misses the glint in Anders’ eye. Nearly.

“That, I can do something about,” Anders tells him, and it’s the last thing Mitchell registers before Anders’ mouth is on his, kissing him hot and deep, and then Anders’ tongue is there, and Mitchell makes the mistake of struggling against the cuffs again.

“Fuck, ow,” Mitchell hisses, “At least let my hands go.”

“And let you ruin my fun?” Anders teases, smiling against Mitchell’s lips as deft fingers work on the fly of his pants, “Nope, sorry, mate, don’t think so.”

Mitchell is sure he’s got some biting remark to make about that, but anything he might have to say or think dissipates into nothingness when Anders’ hot mouth closes around his cock.

 

_**~ END. ~** _


	8. AIDEAN - Alpha and Omega

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **PROMPT** :
> 
> I'm so glad to see your open for prompts again! Ok, so here goes. I'd love to see an Aidean with alpha omega dynamics. Specifically the far ends of the spectrum, with one being super aggresive and the other completely submissive. Can be first time or established relationship I just want to see one topping the hell out of the other and the other loving every minute of it. Would prefer Dean as the omega but not opposed to it being Aiden. Thanks so much! I look forward yo reading all your fills. ♡

The moment they meet, Dean knows. He just knows right away.

It hits him like an oncoming train, and he becomes aware that for seconds on end, he just stands and stares at Aidan, who is giving him an insanely adorable smile. He has to clear his throat and try to remember his name, which nearly proves difficult. The breeze that blows in through a window and sends Aidan’s scent wafting through the air and right at Dean doesn’t help either. The step forward that Dean takes to reach out and shake Aidan’s hand is hesitant at best, and he’s clearly making a fool of himself in front of Peter and Fran, but they’re like him (albeit a little further up along the spectrum), so they must understand. At least, he hopes they do.

Aidan is still smiling as Dean’s hand finally reaches his. But then they touch, their palms clasping together, and his expression changes. His pupils darken almost immediately, his head lowers ever so slightly, and his smile turns into a smirk. He won’t let go of Dean’s hand, and Dean can’t tear himself away from the look in Aidan’s eyes.

_He knows_.

“Aidan, this is Dean,” says Peter, although Dean can barely hear him, what with his blood pounding in his ear, “He’s the new Fili.”

“Well hello, Dean,” greets Aidan, and his voice is low and silky and smooth, and it’s hitting all the right spots inside Dean, “Something tells me we’re going to be really good friends really quick.”

“You’d have to be,” Peter cuts in, but neither Dean nor Aidan is paying him much attention, “Dean’s got to be on set in a few days.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Aidan reassures, finally giving Dean his hand back, “I promise. This is going to be tons of fun, isn’t it Dean?”

“I’m sure,” Dean answers, if a little breathlessly, “Looking forward to it.”

Famous last words.

\--- + --- + --- + --- + --- + ---

Or not.

It seems everyone is made aware, or becomes aware, of just how far down the end of the spectrum Dean is, and almost immediately, everyone goes into defense mode. Richard, Dean finds out, is like Aidan, but apparently not quite as strong. In any case, Richard becomes almost like his protector, shielding him from the worst of the heats, and keeping him as far from Aidan as possible unless absolutely necessary. A few of the other Dwarves are like Dean, but again, not quite to the extremes that he is. They take it upon themselves to become like a human barricade when Richard can’t do it himself. It even gets to a point where Dean can’t even go to the bathroom in his own rented house without one of his brothers standing guard outside the door.

Dean _hates_ it.

Don’t they get it? Don’t they understand? He _wants_ to be with Aidan. He _needs_ to be with Aidan. He never feels more complete, more _right_ than when they’re close, spending what time they can together on set. And when the heats come, it’s only Aidan on Dean’s mind, not Richard, or James, or Jed or Graham. _Aidan_. Just Aidan.

He and Aidan never talk about it though.

Dean likes to think they don’t actually need to.

Besides, it’s not like Aidan is making it easy on anybody, thank heavens. Dean is pretty sure Richard is just a fingernail away from buying rope to bring around and actually, physically tie Aidan down when he’s in a mood. Aidan’s snuck into Dean’s trailer while he was napping so many times that Dean now has to be locked _in_ by someone different every week.

Oh, and don’t get Dean started on the texts.

_I can smell you from a mile away. You smell delicious, you know that?_

_I’m going to kick Richard in the brain really hard if he touches you again._

_Think you can tell Stephen and William to bugger off for some coffee for about half an hour?_

_You’re everything I need, Dean. And I need you pretty damn bad._

_I really hate that blue shirt. All I need is one chance to rip it to shreds, and you’ll never see it again._

_Heat. Massive. Thinking of you. Always thinking of you._

_Fuck, Dean._

_FUCK._

They can’t keep them apart for very long. Not when there’s a month long break on its way, and Aidan has absolutely no intention of leaving New Zealand.

The week leading up to the break feels like an eternity to Dean, and he counts off the days in his head.

Finally – FINALLY – on a Friday, they finish shooting Block 1, and everyone is packed to leave over the weekend.

The Dwarves are cleared out by Sunday morning.

Dean doesn’t receive any texts from Aidan that entire month until that final day. The phone’s message tone is what wakes Dean.

_Tonight. You’re mine._

\--- + --- + --- + --- + --- + --- + ---

There are no pleasantries, no cutesy, romantic first dates, no small talk.

Aidan all but barges into Dean’s rented house when the door swings open. They don’t say a word to each other, and as Aidan passes him as he walks in, Dean catches his scent. It makes his knees buckle, and it’s a miracle he’s able to stand long enough to shut the door and lock it.

And then Aidan is all over him, shoving him up against a wall and kissing the life out of him. Dean is seeing stars. He’s barely able to keep breathing, and when Aidan’s tongue pushes into his mouth and sweeps around, Dean whimpers, clawing at Aidan’s arms and back and waist, trying to pull him in closer.

“Mine,” Aidan declares, voice rough, when he pulls away at last, and Dean cannot, for the life of him, take his eyes off of Aidan, even as Aidan reaches down between them and cups at the growing need between his legs almost too possessively before both of his hands round Dean’s hips and squeeze at his arse. “Mine too.”

“All yours,” Dean promises, hips bucking against Aidan, who is just barely able to suppress a moan in the back of his throat, “All of me. Yours.” Aidan kisses him again, hot and hungry, and all Dean can do is cling to him for dear life as the smell of Aidan’s heat washes over him and takes over.

Dean isn’t sure how it happens, but they end up in his bedroom, Aidan on his bed, still clothed but with his cock out. He strokes himself tightly, his legs spread, as he orders Dean to strip for him. Dean is too happy to oblige; his clothes have been too abrasive from the moment he put them on that morning. The way Aidan _leers_ at him once he’s completely naked makes Dean feel almost virginal. He’s not sure he’s _ever_ been looked at like this by _anyone_ , and oh _God_ is it making him needy for more.

“Turn,” Aidan growls low, “Hands on the wall.”

Dean can’t move fast enough. Already his breath is coming a little short, and when he feels Aidan press up against him, his erection in the cleft of his arse, Dean mewls, pressing back against it, desperate.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Aidan breathes in his ear, “I hate them for keeping you from me. Could fucking tear their heads off one by one for not letting me have you sooner.”

“Fuck, Aidan,” Dean says, and he’s not sure if he’s reacting to Aidan’s threats of violence against their friends or if he’s begging Aidan, who has started to grind ever so slowly but insistently against Dean, his prick, slick with precome and spit, sliding between Dean’s ass.

“Gonna make you mine, Dean,” Aidan huffs, lips on Dean’s shoulder as one arm wraps itself around Dean to press himself even more against him, “Gonna fuck you so hard you forget your own name. Gonna take everything, and you’re going to want it, Dean, you’re going to want all of it. And this...” he reaches down with his other hand and grips Dean’s cock in his fist, pumping tight and rough, “This is going to give me everything. You know that, don’t you? Answer me, Dean.”

It takes a while for Dean to find his voice. “Yes,” he says when he does, “I know it.” His nails are scratching for purchase uselessly against the wall. “I want it.”

“Do you want to suck my cock, Dean?” Aidan groans, “Because I want you to. I want to see that pretty little mouth of yours wrapped around me, want to feel you sucking me down, want to come down your throat and feel you swallowing.”

“ _Shit!_ ” Dean cries out, and then he’s turning, sinking onto his knees and taking Aidan into his mouth, one hand closed tight around the base and stroking what his mouth can’t reach. He’s moaning and whimpering around it, but all he hears from Aidan is a hiss and a single groan. Aidan has a hand is in his hair, and he’s breathing encouragements and commands at Dean, who does as he’s told without question. God, he’s wanted this. He’s wanted this so bad and for so long and now that it’s here and happening, it doesn’t feel real.

But the way Aidan’s fingers tighten in Dean’s curls sends a very real pain that Dean didn’t even know he had been looking for until that very moment, but underneath it is the quiet command to still his movements. He does, and Aidan starts to move his hips instead, fucking Dean’s mouth with long, smooth strokes. Dean reaches up and grasps what he can of Aidan – his thigh, his hip, his belt – and relaxes his jaw to take as much of Aidan in as he can. He’s tempted to reach down and alleviate some of the stress to his own hard-on, but he’s too focused on Aidan to think that that would be a good idea.

Instead, Dean uses his tongue, flattening it against the shaft, curling it around the head, flicking at the slit. All the while, Aidan is in his ears, cursing and praying and encouraging, telling him how good he is and how hot he feels, and fuck, why couldn’t they have done this sooner. Everytime he hears Aidan say his name, Dean thinks he can feel himself on the verge of coming, and he risks taking Aidan’s balls into his hand and massaging. The drawn-out “ _Fuck!_ ” from Aidan tells Dean it was the right thing to do, and Aidan pulls out with a harsh pop.

“Put your lips there,” Aidan hisses, crying out when Dean obeys, his lips sucking on his sac while his hand goes to work on stroking Aidan quick and tight.

“Fuck yeah, Dean, that’s it...Fuck, make me come, want your mouth on me when I do.”

It doesn’t take much after that, and when Dean hears Aidan’s words becoming less coherent and more breath, he presses a knuckle into the sensitive skin just below Aidan’s balls, wrapping his lips around the head of his cock. He gives it one sharp suck before moving down the length, and just in time too; With a growl, Aidan comes hard, punching the wall as he swears. Dean takes everything Aidan has to give him, barely choking as the bitter tang slides down his throat.

Aidan barely gives him time to breathe. With a choked out, “Up,” he’s hauling Dean to his feet, pushing him against the wall again. There’s a hand around Dean’s throat, but not tight nor threatening. Aidan’s fingers press ever so slightly at Dean’s jaw.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Aidan says again, and Dean swears he’s going to faint if he hears that one more time. He’s never been called beautiful before, especially not by someone who deserves the compliment more than he does.

“Yours,” Dean says again, and Aidan smiles.

“Not done with you,” Aidan replies, kissing Dean deeply. Aidan’s tongue invades again, and Dean’s sure, by the little moan that escapes Aidan, that he can taste himself in there.

“On the bed,” Aidan says, “And touch yourself. I wanna see how much you want me.”

Dean bites at Aidan’s lower lip before obeying, leaning as far back on the headboard as possible, spreading his legs wide and taking himself in his hand. He watches as Aidan finally starts removing his own clothes. Dean is staring, and he’s pretty sure he’s drooling. Dear sweet baby Jesus, this man is built like a fucking god. Where the hell has all _this_ been hiding all this time? His hands are itching to get themselves on Aidan, but instead the one he’s got around his own prick tightens unconsciously, and Dean lets out a desperate, pathetic squeak.

“Like what you see, babe?” Aidan murmurs, now just as naked as Dean, cock twitching to life, “So do I. God, I wish you could see yourself. Fucking delicious.”

Dean’s hips buck into his hand, and Aidan chuckles as he climbs onto the bed, looking at Dean from under his lashes.

“You want me, Dean?” Aidan asks him, and Dean just nods, “Tell me how much. And don’t stop what you’re doing.”

“So fucking bad, Aidan,” Dean replies as Aidan’s hands climb up his calves, past his knees and up his thighs, “Wanted you from the moment we met. Want you now. Gonna want you forever. Gonna need you forever.”

“Tell me what else you want, Dean.” Aidan bends low and bites just below Dean’s hip.

Dean finds it way too easy to answer. “Want you around me. Want you inside me. Wanna feel you, wanna feel all of you. Want you to make me come, want you to make me scream. Want you use me, want you to take me, fuck, just take me, Aidan, please.”

“Say that again.” Aidan’s breath is almost searing on Dean’s shoulder.

“Please, Aidan.”

“Again.”

“ _Please_.”

Aidan bites down hard where Dean’s neck and shoulder meet, and Dean cries out, hips rutting up into nothing because Aidan is beside him, the fucking tease, grinding his hips into his skin to get some friction, but giving him nothing more. Dean can feel Aidan’s teeth on his skin, and he’s not sure but maybe they’ve broken through a bit. But then Aidan’s tongue is there, soothing the pain, only to bring it back by sucking sharply on the spot.

Aidan’s hand travels down Dean’s body until it’s batting Dean’s hand away and stroking his cock. He starts slow, but firm, and all the rightness of it causes Dean to sigh and close his eyes and let Aidan do what he will.

“Tell me how that feels, Dean.”

“S’good,” Dean hums, “Fucking good...Oh shit, Aid, don’t stop, please.”

“You really are so fucking beautiful,” Aidan answers, “I never thought you’d be this pliant, this obedient, and fuck, I love it, Dean.”

“Just you, Aidan,” Dean promises, “Just for you.”

“Fuck yes,” Aidan moans, and he kisses Dean, and this time, underneath the possessiveness, the kiss is sweet, almost loving if Dean lets himself feel that way.

Aidan’s hand speeds up, and Dean’s moan comes from a little lower inside him. His body pushes up, and Aidan laughs into his ear, licking at the shell of it. Dean can feel Aidan’s cock hard again against his side, and the sudden thought of it inside him causes him to let out a rather undignified mewl.

“If you want something from me, babe,” Aidan says, “You have to beg for me it. You sound so pretty when you beg, so do it for me, come on. Beg me.”

It’s like a switch of some sort, Aidan’s voice. Aidan’s words. Aidan lips on his skin. Aidan’s hand on his dick. Aidan’s dick against him. Aidan. Aidan is a fucking switch, and every last inch of Dean is attuned and attached to Aidan, and if he lets go, he’ll die out.

“Aidan, shit, Aidan, faster, please...Fuck, I want it faster...Yes, like that, oh God...Yeah...Fuck yes, Aidan, keep going, please, I’m close...so close, Aidan... _please please please_...”

But Aidan does the complete opposite. Aidan slows his pace, even loosens his grip a little. Dean hears himself whine piteously.

“Awww,” Aidan coos darkly, urging Dean onto his side and kissing Dean’s shoulder, “Want more, Dean?”

Dean nods fervently, barely breathing. Aidan removes his hand completely, and Dean pushes back against Aidan unconsciously at the loss of contact. Aidan just chuckles, and Dean hears something wet; Aidan has sucked his own finger into his mouth.

“Fuck, you taste good,” Aidan laughs, and Dean wishes he would shut up because he can’t fucking take how delicious Aidan’s voice is, or that he would say it again, just to hear said delicious voice praising him again.

He feels Aidan urging his legs apart with a knee, and he obliges without second thought. And then Aidan’s hand is tracing down the cleft of his ass until it’s teasing at Dean’s entrance, wet and probing. Aidan’s lips and tongue are on his skin again when the finger finally pushes in, slow but sure and barely giving Dean time to adjust to the intrusion. Aidan slips it in all the way, moaning against Dean’s ear.

“Fucking tight, Deano,” Aidan murmurs, “Been fucked before?”

“Yes,” Dean tells Aidan honestly, “But I want you. I want more, Aidan, _please_.”

“Do you?” Aidan says, “But we’re just starting to have fun.”

His hand moves in short, sharp thrusts, staying far from that sensitive gland inside Dean that would make this a whole lot more than just the burn of the friction. Dean hisses against it, his eyes shut tight against the growing sting.

“Aid, please,” he begs again, “Need more, need it to be good.”

“I’ll make it good, baby, I promise.” Aidan takes his hand away, and Dean lets out a small sigh of relief. There’s another loss of contact when Aidan twists just enough to grab the tube of lube from the bedside table, and the squelch of the viscous liquid being squeezed onto Aidan’s fingers is almost satisfying to Dean.

Two fingers this time, covered in the cold lube, and Dean can’t help but clench around them. He hears Aidan laugh quietly into his back, and then Aidan’s fingers are scissoring inside him, stretching him with a certainty, as if they’ve done this a million times before.

“Where are you, you little fucker,” Aidan mutters, barely inaudible, fingers pushing in as far as they’ll go and then suddenly curling. They hit Dean’s prostate with near sniper-like precision, and Dean all but jumps off of the bed, letting out a loud, wanton cry.

“Aha,” Aidan says, “Right there then?”

“Please,” Dean answers, and he’s sure he’s going to wear the word out before the night is over.

Aidan is a lot more generous this time, twisting and curling his fingers right into the spot when his hand thrusts inward. They spread as they pull out, and there’s that sting again, but it’s better now, and it’s what Dean wants, needs, longs for, has longed for, and is probably going to long for for the rest of his life if Aidan doesn’t do _something_ soon.

A third finger now, moving a little slower, but the stretch is there, and Dean clutches at the sheets underneath him, because it hurts, fuck does it hurt, but it hurts so fucking _good_ , it’s almost blinding. Behind him, Aidan is panting, hips rutting shallowly as his hand moves rough and quick. It’s almost all over when Aidan’s pinkie finger juts out and presses at Dean’s perineum, the spot far too sensitive. Dean lets out a hoarse shout, and Aidan takes that as his signal.

Without warning, he pulls out and off of Dean completely, grasping his hip and pushing him onto his back again even as he reaches for the condom and the lube. Dean is finding it hard to see or hear or breathe or think now, and all he wants is Aidan fucking him into oblivion, and God, why is he taking so long to position himself between Dean’s legs, to put on the condom and to lube himself up? He’s so open and stretched and ready for him, sure it’s all been so hasty and desperate and sloppy and there shouldn’t really have been any pleasure in anything tonight, _but it’s Aidan_.

But then the covered head of Aidan’s cock is pressing at his entrance, and then it’s pushing in, _slowly_ , too slowly, and Dean needs more or he’ll fucking _die_.

“Shit,” Aidan breathes, pushing just a little bit more, smiling as the head disappears into the pucker of Dean’s ass, “Oh fuck yeah. Little bit more, Dean?”

Dean can’t find any coherence in him for words, so he just nods, clawing at Aidan’s arm in desperation. With a breathy swear, Aidan gives him a little bit more, and _fuck_ the stretching wasn’t enough, because Dean can _feel_ Aidan, and it’s too much yet not enough at the same time.

“More,” Dean pleads, “Aidan, come on.”

“Fuck, Dean, give me a moment,” Aidan pants, and there’s a look on his face right now that Dean can’t understand. Is he _relishing_ this? Is he just... _living in the moment_ or something? Soaking it in?

Aidan’s eyes flit up to Dean’s face, and Aidan gives him such a divine smile that it steals Dean’s breath away. He hears himself whisper out Aidan’s name, and the smile doesn’t disappear from Aidan’s face at all.

“Scream for me, Deano,” Aidan says sweetly, and then Dean _does_ , because Aidan pushes the rest of the way in, maybe just a little too fast for it to be particularly good. Nevertheless, the sudden fullness causes Dean to arch up, head thrown back into the pillow as he cries out, fingers digging into Aidan’s wrists.

Aidan bends and kisses at the column of Dean’s throat briefly, before sitting back up onto his calves. Languidly, he pulls almost all the way out, leaving only the head of him in. Dean watches through hazy vision as Aidan adds just a bit more lube, his chest heaving. Aidan grasps at Dean’s hips as he readjusts a little on the bed. He thrusts in again, a little faster than a while ago, and all the way in, as far as Dean can take him. This time, he hits Dean’s prostate head-on, and Dean all but crumples limply. With a final chuckle, Aidan starts to move, his thrusts deep but steady, his pace just right, although the way his nails are basically fusing themselves into Dean’s hips tells whatever coherent part of Dean’s brain is left that it’s taking so much of Aidan’s effort to stay in control.

“Open your eyes, Dean,” Aidan says, his voice and tone broken by his thrusting, “I want you to see what you do to me.”

It takes way too much strength, but Dean manages, and oh God, is it all worth it. Aidan is beautiful above him, almost angelic in his ecstasy. Dean thinks he can pull him down for a kiss, but when he tries, Aidan’s dick on his sweet spot causes electricity to course through him, and he crashes back down onto the bed with a whine.

But Aidan seems to get it; he bends and kisses Dean, and it’s sweet and passionate, and Aidan is tasting him with his tongue even as his hips thrust a little harder than a while ago. Dean manages to get a good grip on Aidan’s body, and he tries to lock him there with hands and legs. With a voice barely above a whisper, he pleads for Aidan to go faster, and Aidan does. Dean’s head falls back into the pillow again, his moaning louder now, because he’s not long for it, really. He didn’t expect this to last long, they’ve been too hungry for each other, and oh God, Aidan feels fucking _fantastic_.

Aidan tightens his grip on Dean’s hips even more to still him, and then he’s grinding down instead of just thrusting. Dean’s eyes roll to the back of his head, and the noise that escapes him now can hardly be classified as _human_.

“Fuck, do that again,” Dean hears himself say, and although Aidan chuckles, Aidan obliges him. He’s grinding them both down into the mattress, as if he’s trying to make it swallow them up, and the movement of his hips are so goddamn _solid_ , so fucking fluid, that it can’t feel anything but too fucking good.

Dean’s hands are scrambling to touch Aidan, lower and lower along Aidan’s lithe frame they go until he’s clutching his ass in both hands. Aidan lets out a tight hiss, rewarding Dean with a few sharp thrusts that leave Dean choking for air.  Aidan laughs again, and Dean reaches up and kisses him, drawing Aidan’s tongue into his mouth because _fuck_ , every last inch of Aidan knows how to turn him into mulch.

And there it is, too soon, _far_ too soon. There’s a fire in Dean’s belly, and if Aidan doesn’t slow down, Dean is going to be coming in minutes, and that wouldn’t be good. He tries to tell Aidan as much, tries to find the words and the voice, but manages only to dig his fingers into Aidan’s arms and shoulder as he lets out a desperate “Not yet.”

“Already?” Aidan says with a bit of a giggle, “That’s what I get for not letting you come earlier.” He slows to a stop, but it’s not quite as effective as Dean would like; Aidan’s cock is pressed right up against the sensitive gland inside him, and the slightest movement from him only makes things worse.

“It’s okay, baby, sshh,” Aidan coos, stroking at Dean’s hair and kissing his forehead sweetly, “Calm down, it’s okay, I’ve got you, you’re not going anywhere.”

Dean has enough time to marvel at how Aidan’s voice can sound like a rockslide one second and then a lullaby the next before Aidan is bunching him up in his arms and rolling them over.

“C’mere,” Aidan is humming, “Come here, you, I’ve got you.”

Aidan’s prick slips out of Dean, and Aidan takes the opportunity to kiss Dean again, and yes, can Dean please have more of that because _WOW_. As they kiss, Aidan gropes around blindly for the lube and presses it into Dean’s hand. Dean doesn’t need to be told. He squeezes some of it onto his hand and reaches behind him, closing his fist around Aidan’s wrapped erection. Aidan moans behind his lips and through his nose when Dean moves his hand and honestly, Dean would probably be content to stay like this, but he’s already missing the fullness of Aidan inside him. Sitting up, he guides himself back onto Aidan’s length in slow, steady measures, not bothering to hold back his own noises.

“Fuck yeah, that’s it, Dean,” Aidan encourages, “That’s right, just...fuck, you’re so hot.”

When he’s fully inside Dean again, Aidan grips Dean by the waist, tilting up to kiss him briefly and to whisper “Don’t move.” Dean doesn’t even have time to nod before Aidan’s hips are pushing up into him again, slow at first, pulling nearly all the way out, only to fill Dean in even strokes. It’s enough to make Dean’s chest heave with the need for breath. Aidan writhes underneath Dean just enough for a bit more leverage, and then he picks the pace back up.

“Fuck!” Dean groans, and then he’s backing up against Aidan’s raised knees, bouncing in Aidan’s lap as he meets him thrust for thrust. Aidan throws his head back and moans, while Dean’s hands clutch onto Aidan’s strong shoulders like a vice.

If Dean thinks he’s got any semblance of control left, he’s deadly wrong. He’s not so much riding Aidan as letting Aidan move his body for him. But if Dean were to be completely honest (and a whole lot more coherent than now), this is exactly how he wants it. This is what he’s wanted – to give himself up to Aidan’s heat and Aidan’s need and Aidan’s hold and to _Aidan_. This is right. This is complete.

Aidan’s rhythm changes, going from long, deliberate movements to sharp, short and insanely well-aimed bursts. The head of his cock brushes against Dean’s prostate relentlessly, and Dean lets out a pathetic whimper when he feels just how close he is.

“Gonna come, Dean?” Aidan asks, watching Dean’s face, “Gonna fucking burst with my cock inside you? Hmm?”

“Yes,” Dean replies hoarsely, “Fuck yes, Aidan...God, so good...”

“Go on, touch yourself,” Aidan tells him, leading one of Dean’s hands to his manhood, “Make yourself come, that’s it.”

Dean stops moving his hips to focus on what his hand is doing, and he tries his best to replicate Aidan’s movements inside him. His eyes screw shut in both concentration and pleasure, and his other arm can barely support him anymore.

“Oh fuck, Aidan,” Dean moans, his hand moving quickly over the head of his erection.

“Yeah, come on, Dean,” Aidan urges, “Tell me how close you are, babe.”

“So close...fuck, you’re good...feel so good...Shit, Aidan, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna fucking come...”

“Here.”

Dean’s eyes snap open. “What?”

Though still moving inside Dean, Aidan puts a finger to his lips. “Right here, Deano,” he says.

“Shit, Aid,” Dean gasps, “You’re gonna --”

“I’m gonna, Dean,” Aidan laughs, “Now bring it over here before you’re done, I want it all.”

Dean scrambles to obey, moving up Aidan’s body until he’s on all fours with Aidan’s head between his legs. Dean’s moan is long and low when Aidan’s mouth closes around his cock and starts moving. Reaching around Dean’s thigh, he wraps one hand around the lower part of his shaft and pumps to meet his mouth in the middle, and Dean growls, helpless in Aidan’s hold, and holy _shit_ , that mouth is fucking unholy, it’s so damn hot and wet and good, _too fucking good_ , and his tongue is circling around the head and tasting the skin. But then Aidan’s tongue flicks once, twice, thrice at the over-sensitized slit and all of a sudden it’s _over._ Dean is coming harder than he has in a long time, his groans coming out choked and abrupt as Aidan returns his earlier favour and swallows. He’s shuddering as he comes down from his high, and it doesn’t help that Aidan pulls him out only to give him a long, languid lick from balls to head before helping him down onto his front beside him on the bed.

“You taste so fucking good, babe,” Aidan murmurs as he starts to shift, kissing at Dean’s hair and ear, “Better than I dreamt you would.”

Too tired and sated to fully respond or react, Dean makes no protest when Aidan kneels between Dean’s legs and pulls the condom off. He grabs at Dean’s ass and kneads, pulling the cheeks apart and tracing a finger down the sensitive skin between. He kneels up and rubs his dick along Dean’s crease, leaning in to kiss at Dean’s nape and shoulder blades as he ruts faster and faster, and then he lets out Dean’s name on a cut-off gasp as he comes too, his cock seated between Dean’s perfect ass as it spends itself.

“Perfect,” Aidan breathes, “You’re so fucking perfect.” He mouths along Dean’s jaw until Dean turns his head and rises up on his elbows enough for the leverage to kiss Aidan. Aidan’s hand slides along Dean’s back, collecting spunk until he can slowly push two sticky fingers slowly into Dean. Dean jerks and whimpers into the kiss, but not away from Aidan or his hand.

“Now why couldn’t we have done that sooner?” Aidan says as soon as he’s calmed and lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling and panting.

“I was thinking that a while ago,” Dean offers, on his stomach and watching Aidan.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Aidan asks him, “From the moment we met, you knew?”

“From the moment I walked in through the door and saw you,” Dean confirms, “You hit me like a fucking tidal wave, I wasn’t ready for it.”

“I wasn’t either,” Aidan confesses, knuckles tracing lightly along Dean’s spine, “I was never okay after that day, you know. I knew I should probably stay away from you because I didn’t want to scare you off or hurt you, but fuck, I didn’t want to, I just wanted...”

“...What?”

“...I just wanted _you_.”

“You couldn’t have stopped it,” Dean replies with a slight shrug.

“Even if I could have,” Aidan sighs, “I wouldn’t have wanted to.”

He turns his head and smiles at Dean, and for the first time, Dean notices just how pretty Aidan’s brown eyes really are.

 

**_~ END. ~_ **


	9. BAGGINSHIELD - Together in Lake-town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A SHORT FLUFFY THING OF BAGGINSHIELD IN LAKETOWN WHERE BILBO CANT SLEEP AND WANDERS ROUND AND FINDS THORIN SITTING BY THE EDGE OF LAKETOWN LOOKING ACROSS THE LAKE AND EREBOR AND BILBO JOINS HIM AND THEY END UP SITTING THERE TOGETHER THE WHOLE NIGHT AND MAYBE BILBO DOZES OFF ON THORINS SHOULDER AND THORIN DRAPES HIS COAT AROUND HIM AND DOESNT MOVE CAUSE HES AFRAID HE'LL WAKE HIM UP AND BLAH BLAH H ELP I HAVE E MO TION ((((OOOOOOPPP SORRRRYYY))))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alkjdfsl k WING DARLING i think you wanted an established relationship kind of fic but instead i did a slow build ohno i'm sorry????????? i hope you still like it tho <3 <3 <3

“So, this is the King Under the Mountain.”

Thorin spares Bilbo a glance, although by the slight upturn of the corner of his mouth, it is clear Thorin appreciated Bilbo's little joke.

“Not with the others?” Thorin asks, taking a puff from his pipe, “I would've thought that such a magnificent and indulgent feast would've kept your attention.”

“It would have,” Bilbo replies honestly, keeping his distance still, unable to stop watching the wind pick up stray strands of Thorin's hair and blow them about gently, “if the food stayed on the plates or made it to mouths instead of being tossed about and ending up on the walls and the floor. Besides, the noise can be rather...disconcerting, to say the least. Although, the amount I would pay to see you join in the revelry would be rather shocking, I think.”

It is at this that Thorin finally turns, a look of bemused accusation directed at the halfling. “And what, pray tell,” he says, “is that supposed to mean?”

Bilbo stammers, opening and closing his mouth as he struggles for a witty comeback and tries very hard indeed not to flush with embarrassment.

Thorin saves him the need to reply. “A joke, Master Baggins,” he tells him, and Bilbo lets out a whistle of relief, “Will you return to them?”

“Not until they're safely in bed and snoring the night away,” Bilbo admits, “I was rather hoping for some peace and quiet myself, if you don't mind sharing.”

“It would be selfish of me not to,” answers Thorin, and Bilbo takes this as his cue to join Thorin where he sits, “Most especially when this may be the last we may have for a long time.”

Bilbo follows his gaze across the lake, although he already knows what weighs heavily on Thorin's mind.

The day is steadily giving way to the night, and one by one stars begin to pepper the darker skies. Against this backdrop of change Erebor stands proud, sharp at its peak and wide at its feet, but it is not the mountain that causes them both to be quiet as much as what awaits them inside it.

“Do you worry about it?” Thorin asks softly, startling Bilbo a bit out of his reverie, “About what might happen when we arrive?”

“At the mountain?” Bilbo replies, “I try not to. I've come this far, but the more I dwell on what else is ahead of us, the more my feet want to take me home.”

He's too late to catch himself as he says it, but Thorin nods at him, and he breathes again.

“I can hardly blame you,” admits the king, “I wonder sometimes if I was too eager...too foolish. Since leaving, all I have dreamed about and worked towards was taking it all back – the throne, the gold, our home. I was prepared to undertake this quest on my own, but ready to take with me anyone who would come. It may not have been the wisest choice, this I had always known, but to have the full weight of that truth loom in the distance...”

The sadness in his tone is one that Bilbo has become accustomed to by now, but his words still take the hobbit aback. Stern, steady, strong Thorin, _afraid_? He definitely sounds a little scared.

“You can't have known,” Bilbo tries to reassure him, “You could've waited and prepared a hundred more years, and you would still have faced the same danger we have, if a little worse. I hardly think you can be blamed for dreaming as you have, for wanting what you do. And that is why they are here, your company. That is why we're _all_ here.”

“But you nearly left,” Thorin reminds him, “You would've gone if the cave floor hadn't opened up underneath us and dropped us into the goblins' lair.”

It takes Bilbo a beat or two to realize the implications of Thorin's words.

“How did you--?” he asks, slightly ashamed but mostly shocked.

“Do you think I could've slept?” Thorin interjects, looking out at Erebor, “With all the lives that could've been lost on that mountain path, do you think I would have been able to sleep a single wink? I heard your every word to Bofur that night. I remember it clearly still, in my head. Sometimes it rings in my ears, how ready you were to leave us for a fate far more uncertain, out on your own in the wilderness.”

Bilbo clears his throat and turns away to hide the fact that he is blushing with shame.

“I was not as angry with you as you perhaps think I was,” Thorin continues, “Not in that moment, at least. We asked much of you, things you could not have been prepared for by anything in your life. Far too many times, you came too close to death, and that would shake even the staunchest soul. If Bofur was not going to stop you, I was not about to either, although I hadn't considered what might become of you traveling alone.”

“I would have been mulch before I made it down the mountain,” Bilbo sighs, “I was not thinking straight....Hang on, are we _seriously_ considering the run-in with the goblins as _fortunate_?”

Thorin seems to actually contemplate this. “It would seem so,” he replies, and this causes Bilbo to let out a rather hideous guffaw that his mother would surely be scandalized about. Thorin casts him an amused look, and Bilbo blushes again and tries to turn his face away.

“Not quite sure where _that_ came from,” Bilbo laughs, embarrassed, and he clears his throat, “But anyway...No more talk of sad and grim things. We have a few days of respite here, best to get as much out of it as we can, don't you agree?”

Thorin nods, smiling a little at him, and it occurs to Bilbo that Thorin's entire face changes for the better with such a small change. (But he won't say this out loud, of course.)

“Tell me about your home,” Bilbo suggests, “Tell me about Erebor as you remember it, in happier times.”

“Did you not come out here for peace and quiet?” Thorin points out, teasing again.

Bilbo waves a hand to indicate the lake. “It's quiet enough,” he tells Thorin, “And hearing you speak happily would give me peace.”

Thorin's expression changes, but Bilbo cannot read it. “Will it?” Thorin says, “I would speak of days past, days long gone, days that are but memories now.”

“Then don't think of them that way,” Bilbo says, leaning back on his hands, “Think of it not as the past you look back on with fondness, but a future you look forward to fervently.”

This makes the smile on Thorin's face widen, and Bilbo cannot help but mirror it.

“Imagine if you can, Master Baggins,” Thorin begins, “Halls wide as the seas, walls that glittered with gems, treasuries filled with as much gold as they can bear. Imagine, if you can, an entire city beneath the rock but alive with music, the entire mountain ringing with the sound of laughter and pride and love...”

Bilbo sits and watches Thorin as the memories – the hopes – come flooding. He seems to grow happier and more hopeful with every word, his face seeming to brighten. He speaks of his happiness as strongly and as firmly as he speaks of taking it back, and here now is the Dwarf that had so compelled Bilbo to launch himself out of his door, out of the comforts of his cozy hobbit hole and into the unknown.

Bilbo thinks he can listen to Thorin reminisce forever.

“It sounds wonderful, Thorin,” Bilbo agrees when he realizes Thorin has let his memories take him adrift.

“It's but a dream,” Thorin says, shaking his head sadly now, “Of what was and what could have been.”

“Of what _will be_ ,” Bilbo corrects him, “I may not know much about what once was, but if anyone is to defeat the dragon and bring the mountain back to its grandeur, I'm sure, beyond shadow of a doubt, that it would be you. Mark my words, Thorin Oakenshield, one day you will see your home restored, and you will see it all from your throne.”

“You sound so sure, halfling,” Thorin chuckles.

Bilbo picks at the grass beneath him absentmindedly. “I've doubted many things during this journey,” he confesses, “Not leastwise myself. And so have you. But the one thing, the definite thing, I shall never doubt is you.”

It was not how he had meant to say it, but it is how he says it anyway. It takes Bilbo a few seconds to realize Thorin is staring at him with something touching on affection, but he can't be sure; he's never seen Thorin be truly affectionate towards anyone, not even his own nephews. Bilbo clears his throat and turns away, acting as though the lake is far too fascinating.

“Well, anyway,” Bilbo stammers, “I hope that's lightened your mood somewhat.”

Thorin replicates Bilbo, and turns his attention to the lake as well, although it is clear that they will not be able to see anything in it in this darkness.

“It has,” he assures Bilbo, “Far more than you can imagine.”

A smile starts to spread across Bilbo's face, but it turns into a yawn instead.

“Far too early for that, don't you think?” Thorin laughs, and it is a sincere laugh, one that Bilbo has not heard since leaving Mirkwood.

“I'm fine,” Bilbo promises, “Far too much food, I think. Had to have my fill before anyone else could get their hands oh them, didn't I?”

Thorin cocks his head in agreement. “Take no offense in this, hobbit, for I mean none, but I am in no urgent or immediate need of your company. If you wish to retire for the night, I will not hold it against you.”

Thorin is smiling as he says it, and is still doing so. Bilbo doesn't think he's seen Thorin smile this much. It is all strangely very comforting.

“Would you hold it against me if I stayed?” Bilbo asks, “Only I'm growing quite attached to this night wind, and it's been a while since I've seen this many stars.”

Thorin shakes his head. “Not at all,” he promises, “Not at all.”

They sit together in silence, watching the night deepen. The wind blows across the lake, causing it to ripple and Bilbo to draw his jacket around him tighter, as though this will keep the chill out. They can hear the rest of the company still singing and making merry, faint in the distance but undoubtedly still quite the ruckus. No one who comes across them pays them any mind.

They sit together in silence, until Thorin hears Bilbo let out a tiny hum, and realizes Bilbo has fallen asleep with his head resting on Thorin's shoulder, deep in sleep already and comfortable as you please.

Thorin could move. Thorin could wake Bilbo to tell him to leave for his bed. Thorin could take him there himself instead.

Thorin could separate Bilbo from himself.

Thorin does not.

 

 

_**~ END. ~** _


	10. Chapter 10 - Alistair/Female Warden (Amell)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **PROMPT** : Alistair/Sathien having that discussion before Sathien takes off to cure the calling?

Sathien is slow to wake. She barely remembers last night –at least, until she stretches a little too much and a rather familiar ache spikes through her back fleetingly. _Ah, right._  
  
She’s fully conscious a few more minutes later, and it’s only then that she realizes her bedside is empty. _That would explain the cold._ She draws her blankets up around her as she sits up, rubbing at her eyes and stretching against the crick in her back. _If I can’t stay on a horse for more than five minutes because of this, I’m going to kill him myself._  
  
The thought leaves a bitter taste in Sathien’s mouth, as though she had uttered the words aloud. What does come out of her then is a heavy sigh at the thought of what brought on last night’s… _onslaught._  
  
It’s a strange word to use, but more appropriate for that, she supposes. An argument, a decision, and then Alistair had rammed her into a wall and kissed her hard. They had been angry, both of them – at each other, at the world, at fate, at…anything, really, that they could think of to be angry at. They took it out on their clothes first, and then on each other. Sathien’s hand unconsciously feels at her waist, where she imagines Alistair’s fingers might still have marks. Her other hand traces along her collarbone, and she thinks that a quick check in the mirror might reveal yet another love bite.  
  
There’s a smile on Sathien’s face now, and she can only imagine that it looks as ridiculous as it feels. Alistair’s always had that effect on her, and to this day, she can’t decide if she likes it or not.  
  
_Alistair…_  
  
Sathien gathers the blankets around her, folding corners to keep them in place as she gets up (with just a little bit of ache in the best places). The wood beneath her feet is cold as usual, and a cool breeze blows through the entire room. She can’t tell how far along the day it is, or if indeed it even is morning. It feels like it. She’ll go with it.  
  
She finds Alistair bent over his table, maps and notes and documents spread haphazardly across it, his arms flexed as he leans on the edges with his fists. Sathien wonders if he’s just showing off or truly hasn’t found his shirt, but she’s not about to complain, not when she can see her own scratches across his back and down his hip. Definitely won’t be complaining about the loosely tied breeches either.  
  
Sathien’s arms circle around Alistair’s waist, and she hears him let out a single chuckle when she plants a tiny kiss on his shoulder blade. “Did you sleep?” she asks softly, fingers tracing lightly on his ribs.  
  
“An hour,” Alistair tells her truthfully, “Maybe two.”  
  
“And what were you doing when you weren’t asleep?” she prods as Alistair reaches over and flips a page on one of their acquired missives.  
  
“Well, _you_ ,” snorts Alistair, “Or have you forgotten already? I wouldn’t mind reminding you.”  
  
Sathien slaps his stomach. “ _Besides_ me,” she emphasizes as Alistair laughs, “I think you’ve read all of that back and forth at least 400 times.”  
  
Alistair’s sigh is sad. “I just…I need to make sure we haven’t missed anything,” he answers, one hand combing into his hair, “Every last detail…every last _word_ …”  
  
Sathien finds his other hand, and his fingers lace with hers as she turns from him to lean back against the table. “Is that _really_ what you’re looking for?” she tells him.  
  
Alistair’s reply is to turn away, suddenly finding a blank piece of vellum _very_ interesting.  
  
“Alistair…” Sathien breathes, tugging at the hand he has in hers.  
  
But Alistair shakes his head. “Don’t do this to me again,” he groans, “Just…I mean…This is how last night happened.”  
  
“Last night wasn’t all bad,” Sathien replies, trying to lighten the mood, but succeeding only in sparking a tiny smirk in the corner of Alistair’s mouth, which disappears almost as quickly as it had come.  
  
“I’m still angry with you, you know,” he tells her, still not looking her way, but not taking his hand back, “And I probably won’t stop being angry with you for a while.”  
  
“I’ll take it,” Sathien answers, “It’ll remind me that you care.”  
  
Alistair growls behind his teeth. “That’s just the thing, isn’t it?” he hisses, “Why would you even need reminding? Why would you have to want to be reminded that I care? Why can’t I just come with you?”  
  
“Because you _can’t_ yet,” Sathien says to him for what feels like the fiftieth time in three days, “Even if she doesn't know it, Ferelden needs you.”  
  
“And _you_ don’t?” Alistair shoots back, and now Sathien’s shoulders sag.  
  
“You know that’s not what I meant,” she admonishes.  
  
Whatever fire Alistair was determined to hold on to is put out, and his entire frame falls, his hand lightening in Sathien’s. “I know,” he sighs, “I know…” He rubs at his face, letting his hand climb into his hair and fall to the back of his neck. “I hate this…” he whispers, “Maker, I _really_ hate this.”  
  
“I don’t like it much either,” Sathien reassures him, “But if this works…Alistair, if we’re right about this…”  
  
She can’t bring herself to finish the thought. A longer life with Alistair? Not having to worry about fate’s imminent call? Marriage? Children? It all sounds beautiful, and too much to hope for. She doesn’t want to hope, not just yet. Saying it all out loud makes it all feel so…possible, so sure. Success is frightening, mostly because she can’t see what failure might mean for them both.  
  
Tears sting her eyes, and Alistair groans in sympathy. He draws her to him, enveloping her in a warm and much-needed embrace. Sathien can hear his heart beat. Its steadiness is familiar, but does little to calm her. She feels him stroking her back and her hair, and then a tiny kiss lands on her head.  
  
They stay like this for what feels like an eternity and a second both at the same time. Eight years, and Sathien is quite sure she’ll never get enough of just _touching_ Alistair. He’s always warm, and sturdy, and strong. It’s always a relief, even when she doesn’t need it.  
  
“I want you to know that I’m very cross with you,” Alistair tells her quietly, “And if you don’t come back, or if you don’t send for me, I will be very, _very_ cross with you.”  
  
Sathien has to laugh. She muffles it on his chest. “We wouldn’t want that, would we?” she says, and she feels rather than hears Alistair chuckle. She responds with a kiss above his heart.  
  
“Oh, trying to get me to change my mind now, are you?” Alistair says, his register dropping, and Sathien can practically hear the smile in his suggestive tone, “Trying to make me…not cross? Un-crossed? Is that a word? ‘Un-crossed?’”  
  
Sathien can’t even stop the laugh this time. She retaliates by reaching down and giving his bum a bit of a squeeze.  
  
“Whoa, hey!” Alistair remarks, “That’s a step in the right direction.”  
  
“In the right direction for what?” Sathien asks, feigning coyness, “I think I’ll have to take you up on the offer to remind me of what you were doing last night.”  
  
“Hey, _I_ make the jokes around here, remember?” Alistair laughs, but he tilts Sathien’s face to his. His kiss is deep but soft, affectionate, loving. It always is. When his hands skirt down her sides, pulling the blankets loose of her, she doesn’t fight. When he urges her thighs around him, she goes without question. He carries her, naked and still attached to his lips, back to bed, where he somehow manages to lay her back down without breaking their kiss.  
  
Sathien doesn’t tell Alistair, but she’s already started to sketch all this into her mind. This might be the last time in a long while. (She doesn’t want to finish that with the thought, “Or ever.”) She’s going to miss him, miss every inch of him that she can see and touch and hear and kiss. Every waking morning, she’ll send prayers to whatever deity would care to hear her to keep him safe. Every evening, before sleep, she’ll think of him, determined to make him the last thing she thinks of so she can dream of him. And when he groans low in his throat when he thrusts into her, she commits it to memory, something to keep her company when it’s too quiet.  
  
But that’s for after she’s gone, after today, when she’s out on the road, headed west in the hopes of discovering a way to change their fate. For now, she’s Alistair’s, and she wraps herself around him needily, laying scratches over the ones she had made last night, nipping at his ear and telling him she loves him. He tells her the same, after he finds release and comes down from it, arms still wound around her defiantly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**_~ END. ~_**


	11. Alistair/Amell, Cullen/Mage!Trevelyan - The Wife-Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PROMPT: I wish you would write a fic where : The Chantry Boys sit down and have a cuppa and talk about their hot amazing wives.

“There you are!”

Alistair’s entire body relaxes at the sound of Sathien’s cheery greeting, and he risks turning his attention away momentarily to meet her with a smile.

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” Sathien continues, circling an arm around Alistair’s shoulders before dropping a small kiss into his hair, “Hello, Cullen.”

The Commander offers her a small nod and a tiny grin from across the table.

“Something you needed, love?” Alistair asks, finding her hand with his and bringing her knuckles to his lips.

“Not really,” Sathien confesses, “Just wondering why you weren’t…I don’t know, raiding the kitchens for cheese or something.”

“Who said I hadn’t already?” Alistair shoots back, “Maybe they’ve already run out of cheese.”

“So you decide to play chess with Cullen?” asks Sathien, eyebrows shooting up.

Alistair shrugs. “Not so much ‘playing chess with’ as ‘getting my arse handed to me on a platter by,’” laughs Alistair, “He looked like he needed a distraction, the way his eyebrows were about to merge forever in the middle, but it turns out what he really needs is a better opponent than I. And here you are! You’re in for it now, Commander.”

“To be fair, he _has_ won twice,” Cullen offers, and Sathien has to giggle.

“Sounds like your’e doing fine then,” Sathien chuckles, launching herself across Alistair’s lap. Alistair lets out a joking gasp of pain as her weight lands on him, and she smacks his chest with the back of her hand.

“You _are_ very good though,” Alistair reminds her, before turning to Cullen and pointing down at Sathien, “She’s very good.”

“I remember,” Cullen chuckles, “One of the few in Ferelden’s Circle who actually presented a challenge.”

“That was years ago,” Sathien says, scrutinizing the ongoing game, “I might be better now, I’ve gotten more practice.” She takes Alistair’s knight and moves it. Alistair’s hand is in her hair, stroking gently.

“Then I might not be much of an opponent for you, Commander,” Cullen remarks, countering her move, “Sygrid, on the other hand, might give you a run for your money. Not that she hasn’t already.”

Alistair and Sathien turn smirks at each other at the same time. “You mean with the whole saving-the-world thing?” Alistair asks as Sathien defends his Queen with a pawn, of all things.

Cullen laughs as he settles into his seat. “Yes, the whole closed-the-Breach, defeated-a-giant-darkspawn-and-its-archdemon, saved-the-world thing,” he shoots back.

“Did you hear that, darling?” Alistair says, “The Inquisitor defeated a darkspawn! _A_ darkspawn! How shameful of you to have defeated only five hundred during the peak of the Fifth Blight! Five hundred in one night? Tsk tsk, Sathien. _Weak_.”

“Ah, but Sygrid has also defeated hordes of undead and several possessed beasts,” Cullen points out.

“Yes, I’m sure she did that after finding Andraste’s Sacred Ashes and saving the life of an important Arl,” Alistair replies, “Oh wait, I believe that was _my_ darling wife.”

On Alistair’s lap, Sathien just shakes her head as she takes one of Cullen’s pawns.

“An accomplishment without equal, to be sure,” offers Cullen, “Just like Sygrid saving an entire town’s population from the clutches of red templars.”

“Or Sathien putting an end to the werewolf curse in the Brecilian Forest,” Alistair answers as Cullen’s priest checks Sathien’s King.

“Or Sygrid saving Empress Celene’s life and executing the traitor Duchess, thereby stalling Corypheus’ efforts for a significant amount of time,” Cullen inputs.

“Or how Sathien _survived the Joining_.”

“Or how Sygrid walked in and out of the Fade in physical form. Thrice.”

“Or how --”

“Checkmate, Cullen,” interrupts another voice.

Cullen’s chair scrapes noisily on the ground as he pushes his chair back. “Inquisitor,” he offers in greeting as Sygrid joins their little party.

“So formal,” Sygrid tsks, swatting Cullen on the shoulder – not that he’d feel it through the pauldron. She jerks her thumb at him as she addresses Sathien. “Is this guy bothering you?”

“Only insofar as he should’ve won two moves ago,” replies Sathien, “but he let my last priest through and now _I’ve_ won. I’m _bothered_.”

“Y-you’ve won?” Cullen asks, genuine confusion on his face as he turns from the kiss he had planted on Sygrid’s cheek to the chessboard, “That’s impossible, you can’t have…But I put… _Dammit_.”

“Nicely done, love!” Alistair cheers, laughing, “My hero!”

Sygrid is laughing as well as she wraps her arm around Cullen’s own. “Beaten by the Hero of Ferelden,” she states, “Quite an honor for House Rutherford, methinks.”

“Hopefully bestowed not too often,” Cullen snorts, “Well played, Lady Theirin. I expect a rematch. For now, I shall go off and sulk so that my wife may have a reason to cheer me up.”

“I’ll go read you a story, maybe,” chuckles Sygrid as she draws Cullen away.

 “You never read me stories,” Alistair jokingly pouts.

Sathien snorts as she laughs. “I do other things with my mouth that you like though,” she points out.

“Mmm, that you do,” Alistair agrees, bending to kiss her on the nose, “Like telling me to go get a bath. I like when your mouth tells me to go get a bath.”

“Or when it makes fun of you when I’m beating you at chess,” Sathien offers.

“Is that about to happen?” asks Alistair, fingers absently dancing across her thigh.

Sathien reaches up and brings him down for a kiss. “Absolutely,” she tells him, pushing herself off his lap so Alistair can reset the board.

 

 

**~ END. ~**


End file.
